The Forgotten

A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel

For Andy, Joanne, and Miriam In memory of Shira—aleha ha’shalom

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Contents 1 The call was from the police. Not from Rina’s lieutenant…

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2 The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come…

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3 What’s the address?”Webster asked.

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4 Torah Academy of West Hills had been molded from an…

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5 Driving up to Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of…

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6 It stood out, a surface of metal against books and…

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7 The prep school supplied lots of perks, among them the…

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8 His orders were to pick up Hannah after school at…

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9 Microwaving the pizza had left it tasteless with soggy crust…

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10 It was past eight and the Goldings still hadn’t made…

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11 Installing and painting bookshelves gave Decker much needed downtime, using…

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12 Crimes more pressing than vandalism still plagued the city, leaving…

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13 The brass plate on the gate named it Hacienda del…

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14 The vandalism case stalled, but crime did not. With new…

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15 It was a short hop from residential real estate to…

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16 They had to have known something was really wrong, because…

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17 As he drove back to the crime scene, Decker spoke…

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18 Getting a search warrant on criminals with probable cause was…

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19 They literally had lined Decker’s office because there wasn’t enough…

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20 Over the hill, it was fifteen degrees cooler, and being…

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21 Rina regarded her husband as he wiped the last dish,…

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22 A mother’s sleep was eternally light, a quick dash into… 217

23 Sipping coffee, Decker sat at the kitchen table, the paper…

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24 Usually, she took a combination of freeways and canyons to… 239 25 Decker said, “If Tarpin murdered the Baldwins because of his…

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26 When Emma Lazarus wrote her famous words underneath the Statue…

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27 Pulling out of the parking lot, Marge went east until…

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28 Architecturally, the church had been built with light and air…

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29 We finally tracked down Darrell Holt’s old man,” Martinez said.

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30 Decker looked up from Merv Baldwin’s computer. “How many years…

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31 The house was situated on the side of a mountain,…

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32 The girl was a stick figure: one-dimensional arms and legs…

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33 He was one of those old men who had that… 350 34 It was going to be an all-nighter, so Decker decided…

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35 It showed up on the map as a tiny vein…

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36 Hiding under the cloak of darkness, in a tangle of…

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37 He wasn’t sure what hurt more, his bones or his…

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38 There were cops outside Ruby’s hospital room, their guns catching… Acknowledgments About the Author Other Books by Faye Kellerman Cover Copyright About the Publisher

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∂1 The call was from the police. Not from Rina’s lieutenant husband, but from the police police. She listened as the man spoke, and when she heard that it had nothing to do with Peter or the children, she felt a “Thank you, God” wave of instant relief. After discovering the reason behind the contact, Rina wasn’t as shocked as she should have been. The Jewish population of L.A.’s West Valley had been rocked by hate crimes in the past, culminating in that hideous ordeal a couple of years ago when a subspecies of human life had gotten off the public bus and had shot up the Jewish Community Center. The center had been and still was a refuge for all people, offering everything from toddler day camps to dance movements to exercise classes for the elderly. Miraculously, no one had been killed—there. But the monster—who had later in the day committed the atrocious act of murder—had injured several children and had left the entire area with numbing fears that maybe it could happen again. Since then, many of the L.A. Jews took special precautions to safeguard their people and their institutions. Extra locks were put on the doors of the centers and synagogues. Rina’s shul, a small rented storefront, had even gone so far as to padlock the Aron Kodesh—the Holy Ark that housed the sacred Torah scrolls. The police had phoned Rina because her number was the 1

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one left on the shul’s answering machine—for emergencies only. She was the synagogue’s unofficial caretaker—the buck-stops-here person who called the contractors when a pipe burst or when the roof leaked. Because it was a new congregation, its members could only afford a part-time rabbi. The congregants often pitched in by delivering a Shabbos sermon or sponsoring an after-prayer kiddush. People were always more social when food was served. The tiny house of worship had lots of mettle, and that made the dreadful news even harder to digest. Driving to the destination, Rina was a mass of anxiety and apprehension. Nine in the morning and her stomach was knotted and burning. The police hadn’t described the damage, other than use the word vandalize over and over. From what she could gather, it sounded more like cosmetic mischief than actual constructional harm, but maybe that was wishful thinking. She passed homes, stores, and strip malls, barely glancing at the scenery. She straightened the black tam perched atop her head, tucking in a few dangling locks of ebony hair. Even under ordinary circumstances, she rarely spent time in front of the mirror. This morning, she had rushed out as soon as she hung up the phone, wearing the most basic of clothing— a black skirt, a white long-sleeved shirt, slip-on shoes, a head covering. At least her blue eyes were clear. There had been no time for her makeup; the cops were going to see the uncensored Rina Decker. The red traffic lights seemed overly long, because she was so antsy to get there. The shul meant so much to her. It had been the motivating factor behind selling Peter’s old ranch and buying their new house. Because hers was a Sabbath-observant Jewish home, she had wanted a place of worship that was within walking distance—real walking distance, not something two and a half miles away as Peter’s ranch had been. It wasn’t that she minded the walk to her previous shul, Yeshivat Ohavei Torah, and the boys certainly could make the jaunt, but Hannah, at the time, had been five. The new house was perfect for Han-

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nah, a fifteen-minute walk, plus there were plenty of little children for her to play with. Not many older children, but that didn’t matter, since her older sons were nearly grown. Shmueli had left for Israel, and Yonkie, though only in eleventh grade, would probably spend his senior year back east, finishing yeshiva high school while simultaneously attending college. Peter’s daughter, Cindy, was now a veteran cop, having survived a wholly traumatic year. Occasionally, she’d eat Shabbat dinner with them, visiting her little sister— a thrill since Cindy had grown up an only child. Rina was the mother of a genuine blended family, though sometimes it felt more like genuine chaos. Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the storefront. The tiny house of worship was in a building that also rented space to a real estate office, a dry cleaners, a nail salon, and a take-out Thai café. Upstairs were a travel agency and an attorney who advertised on late-night cable with happy testimonials from former clients. Two black-and-white cruisers had parked askew, taking up most of the space in the minuscule lot, their light bars alternately blinking out red and blue beams. A small crowd had gathered in front of the synagogue, but through them, Rina could see hints of a freshly painted black swastika. Her heart sank. She inched her Volvo into the lot and parked adjacent to a cruiser. Before she even got out of the car, a uniform was waving her off. He was a thick block of a man in his thirties. Rina didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything because she didn’t know most of the uniformed officers in the Devonshire station. Peter had transferred there as a detective, not a patrol cop. The officer was saying, “You can’t park here, ma’am.” Rina rolled down the window. “The police called me down. I have the keys to the synagogue.” The officer waited; she waited. Rina said, “I’m Rina Decker, Lieutenant Decker’s wife . . .”

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Instant recognition. The uniformed officer nodded by way of an apology, then muttered, “Kids!” “Then you know who did it?” Rina got out of the car. The officer’s cheeks took on color. “No, not yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.” Another cop walked up to her, this one a sergeant by his uniform stripes, with Shearing printed on his nametag. He was stocky with wavy, dishwater-colored hair and a ruddy complexion. Older: mid to late fifties. She had a vague sense of having met him at a picnic or some social gathering. The name Mike came to mind. He held out his hand. “Mickey Shearing, Mrs. Decker. I’m awfully sorry to bring you down like this.” He led her through the small gathering of onlookers, irritated by the interference. “Everybody . . . a couple of steps back . . . Better yet, go home.” Shouting to his men, “Someone rope off the area, now!” As the lookie-loos thinned, Rina could see the exterior wall—one big swastika, a couple of baby ones on either side. Someone had spray-painted Death to the Inferior, Gutter Races. Angry moisture filled her eyes. “Is the door lock broken?” she asked the sergeant. “ ’Fraid so.” “You’ve been inside?” “Unfortunately, I have. It’s . . .” He shook his head. “It’s pretty strong.” “My parents were concentration-camp survivors. I know this kind of thing.” He raised his eyebrow. “Watch your step. We don’t want to mess up anything for the detectives.” “Who’s being brought in?” Rina said. “Who investigates hate crimes?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt her muscles tighten, and her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder that her teeth didn’t crack. All the walls had been tattooed with one vicious slogan

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after another, each derogatory, each advocating different ways to exterminate Jews. So many swastikas, it could have been a wallpaper pattern. Eggs and ketchup had been thrown against the plaster, leaving behind vitreous splotches. But the walls weren’t the worst part, minor compared to the holy books that had been torn and shredded and strewn across the floor. And even the sacrilege of the religious tomes and prayer books wasn’t as bad as the horrific photographs of concentration-camp victims that lay atop the ruined Hebrew texts. She averted her eyes but had already seen too much— ghastly black-and-white snapshots depicting individual bodies with tortured faces and gaping mouths. Some were clothed, some nude. Shearing was staring, too, shaking his head back and forth, while uttering “Oh man, oh man” under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Rina cleared her throat, partially to break Mickey’s trance, but also to stave back tears. “I suppose I should look around to see if anything valuable is missing.” Mickey looked at Rina’s face. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did the place have anything valuable . . . ? I mean, I know the books are valuable, but like flashy valuable things. Like silver ecumenical things . . . is ‘ecumenical’ the right word?” “I know what you mean.” “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.” The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet . . . the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.” “Lucky that you had the grates installed.” “We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the Aron Kodesh. Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.” Rina stopped. He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”

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Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.” “Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.” “They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?” “With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.” Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side. “Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?” Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a parttime youth director. Like most labors of love, the shul operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek. “At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?” “Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.” Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old Der Stuermer or the Protocol of the Elders of Zion. Again, she glanced at the grainy photographs. Upon inspection, she realized that the black-and-whites did not look like copies. They looked like genuine snapshots taken by someone who had been there. The thought—someone visually recording dead people—sickened her. Now someone was leaving them around as a frightful reminder or a threat. Again, her eyes filled with furious tears. She was so angry, so desolate, that she wanted to scream at the world. Instead, she took out her cell phone and paged her husband. * * *

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Decker had many thoughts rattling through his brain, most of them having to do with how Rina was coping. Still, there was some space left over for his own feelings. Anger? No. Way beyond anger, and that wasn’t good. Such blinding rage caused people to make mistakes, and Decker couldn’t afford them right now. So instead of mulling over a crime he had yet to see, he looked out the windshield and tried to get distracted by the scenery. By the rows of houses that had once been citrus orchards, by the warehouses and strip malls that lined Devonshire Boulevard. He tried not to think about his stepson in Israel or his other stepson at a Jewish high school. Or Hannah, who was currently in second grade—young and trusting and as innocent as those rows of preschoolers led out of the JCC a couple of years ago after that god-awful shooting. He realized he was sweating. Though it was the usual overcast May in L.A.—the air cool and a bit moldy—he turned the air conditioner on full blast. Someone had given him the address as a formality, but even if he hadn’t known the locale, the cruisers would have been a tip-off. He parked his car in a red zone, got out, and told himself to take a deep breath. He’d need to be calm, not to deal with the crime but to deal with Rina. A quartet of uniforms was buzzing around the space like flies. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when Mickey Shearing caught him. “Where is she?” Decker’s voice was a growl. “Inside the synagogue,” Shearing answered. “You want the details?” “You have details?” “I have . . .” Mickey flipped through his book. “. . . that the first report came in at eight-thirty in the morning from the guy who operates the dry cleaning. I arrived about ten minutes later, found the door lock broken. I called up the synagogue to find out if there was a rabbi or someone in charge. I got a machine with a phone number on it. Turned out to be your wife.”

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“And you didn’t think to call me before you called her?” Decker’s glare was harsh. “There was just a phone number on it, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it was your wife until afterward.” Decker broke eye contact and rubbed his forehead. “S’right. Maybe it’s better coming from you. Anyone been interviewed?” “We’re making the rounds.” “Nothing?” “Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.” “Kids as in more than one?” “A lot of damage. I think so.” “Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.” “Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh . . . nineteen . . .” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.” “Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?” “I think he’s Jewish, sir.” “You think?” “Uh . . . yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him— Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.” “Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.” Having worked Juvenile for a number of years, Decker was familiar with errant kids and lots of vandalism. He had worked in an area noted for biker bums, white trash, hoodlum Chicanos, and teens who just couldn’t get behind high school. But this? Too damn close to home. He was so distracted by the surroundings, he didn’t even notice Rina until she spoke. It jolted him, and he took a step backward, bumping into her, almost knocking her down.

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“I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand, then clasped her body tightly. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” “I’m . . .” She shrugged in his arms. Don’t cry! “How long before we can start cleaning this up?” “Not for a while. I’d like to take photographs and comb the area for prints—” “I can’t stand to look at this!” Rina pulled away and turned her eyes away from his. “How long?” “I don’t know, Rina. I’ve got to get the techs out here. It isn’t a murder scene, so it isn’t top priority.” “Oh. I see. We have to wait until someone gets shot.” Decker tried to keep his voice even. “I’m as anxious as you are to clean this up, but if we want to do this right, we can’t rush things. After the crews leave, I will personally come over here with mop and broom in hand and scrub away every inch of this abomination. Okay?” Rina covered her mouth, then blinked back droplets. She whispered back, “Okay.” “Friends?” Decker smiled. She smiled back with wet eyes. Decker’s smile faded as the horror hit him. “Good Lord!” He threw his head back. “This is . . . awful!” “They took the kiddush cup, Peter.” “What?” “The kiddush cup is gone. We kept it in the cabinet. It was silver plate with turquoise stones and just the type of item that would get stolen because it was accessible and flashy.” Decker thought a moment. “Kids.” “That’s what they’re all saying. Why not some evil hate group?” “Sure, it could be that. One thing I will say on record is it’s probably not a hype. If he wanted something to swap for instant drug money, the crime would have been clean theft.” “Maybe the cup is hidden underneath all this wreckage.” Rina shrugged. “All I know is the cup isn’t in the cabinet.” Decker took out his notebook. “Anything else?”

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“Fresh scratch marks on the padlock on the Aron—the Holy Ark. They tried to get into it, but weren’t successful.” “Thank goodness.” He folded his notebook and studied her face. “Are you going to be okay?” “I’m . . . all right. I’ll feel better once this is cleaned up. I suppose I should call Mark Gruman.” Decker sighed. “He and I painted the walls the first time. Looks like we’re going to paint them again.” Rina whispered, “Once word gets out, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of willing volunteers.” “Hope so.” Decker stamped his foot. An infantile gesture but he was so damn angry. “Man, I am pi . . . mad. I’d love to swear except I don’t want to further desecrate the place.” “What’s the first step in this type of investigation?” “To check out juveniles with past records of vandalism.” “Aren’t records of juveniles sealed?” “Of course. But that doesn’t mean the arresting officers can’t talk. A couple of names would be a good start.” “How about checking out real hate groups?” “Definitely, Rina. We’ll work this to the max. Nothing in this geographical area comes to mind. But I remember a group in Foothills—the Ethnic Preservation Society or something like that. It’s been a while. I have to check the records, and to do that properly I need to go back to the office.” “Go on. Go back. I’ll be okay.” She turned to face him. “Who’s coming down?” “Wanda Bontemps. She’s from the Hate Crimes Unit. Try not to bite her head off. She had a bad experience with Jews in the past.” “And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?” “She’s black—” “So she’s a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?” “She’s not anti-Semitic at all. She’s a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I’m just . . . I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” He looked

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around and grimaced. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I’ll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda’s new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn’t been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.” “I’m sure that’s true,” Rina answered. “Don’t worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we’ll get along just fine.”

∂2 The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally as likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn’t been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-sixmonths meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn’t sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy. He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire’s detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster . . . except for the dress. NeoNazis didn’t usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had 12

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donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie—probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina’s father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats. Webster looked up, and Decker caught his eye, pointing to his office. A minute later, Tom came in and closed the door. His hair had been recently shorn, but several locks still brushed his eyebrows, giving him that “aw shucks” look of a schoolboy. “Sorry about this morning, Loo.” Webster took a seat across Decker’s desk. “We all heard it was pretty bad.” “Y’all heard right.” Decker sat at his desk and sifted through his computer until he found what he wanted. Then he pressed the print button. “What’s your schedule like?” “I was just doing a follow-up on the Gonzalez shooting. Talking to the widow . . .” He sighed. “The trial’s been delayed again. Perez’s lawyer quit, and they’re assigning him a new PD who is not familiar with the case. Poor Mrs. Gonzalez wants closure and it isn’t going to happen soon.” “That’s too bad,” Decker stated. “Yeah, it’s too bad and all too typical,” Webster answered. “I have court at one-thirty. I thought I’d go over my notes.” “You’re a college grad, Webster. That shouldn’t take you long.” Decker handed him the printout. “I want you to check this out.” Webster looked at the sheet. “Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? What is all this? A Nazi group?” “That’s what you’re going to find out.” “When? Now?” “Yes.” Decker smiled. “Right now.” “What am I inquiring about? The temple vandalism?” “Yes.” “Am I supposed to be simpatico to the cause?” “You want information, Tom; do what you need to do. As a matter of fact, take Martinez with you. You’re white, he’s Hispanic. With racists, you can do good cop, bad cop just by using the color of your skin.”

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* * * From the synagogue, Bontemps called Decker and told him about the three kids she had hauled in for prior vandalism. All of them had sealed records. “How about a couple of names?” Decker asked. Bontemps said, “Jerad Benderhurst—a fifteen-year-old white male. Last I heard, he was living with an aunt in Oklahoma. Jamal Williams—a sixteen-year-old AfricanAmerican male—picked up not only for vandalism, but also petty theft and drug possession. I think he moved back east.” “That’s not promising. Anyone else?” “Carlos Aguillar. I think he’s fourteen, and I think he’s still at Buck’s correction center. Those are the ones I remember for vandalism. If you check with Sherri and Ridel, they might have others.” A pause. “Then again, Lieutenant, you might want to consider the bigger picture when it comes to tagging.” Decker knew exactly to whom she was referring—a specific group of white, middle-to-upper-class males who were not only testosterone laden, but also terribly bored with life. Recently, after having been caught, the kids had secured their daddies’ highly paid lawyers before they had even been booked. The entire bunch had gotten off, the tagging expunged from the records, and in record time. Most of the kids were enrolled in private schools. For them, even drugs and sex had become too commonplace. Crime was the last vestige of rebellion. “There was a group of them last year,” Wanda said. “Around twenty of them dressing like homies and trying to act very baaaad. They defaced a lot of property. If I thought about it, I could remember some names.” “You could also have your ass sued for giving me the names,” Decker said. “As far as the records are concerned, they don’t exist. But I know who you mean.” A glance at the wrist told him it was eleven-twenty. “How’s it going over there?” “Photographers are almost done. So are the techs. Your

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wife is waiting with a crew of people—all of them armed with soapy water pails, cleaning solutions, rags, and mops. They are ready to start scrubbing, and they are angry. If the police don’t hurry up, someone’s gonna get impaled on a broomstick.” “That sounds like Rina’s doing,” Decker stated. “You want to talk to her? She’s hanging over my shoulder.” “I am not hanging,” Rina said, off side. “I am waiting.” Wanda handed her the phone. Rina said, “Detective Bontemps has offered to spend her lunch hour helping us clean.” “Is that a pointed comment?” “Well, you might want to take a cue.” Decker smiled. “I’ll be there as soon as I get off work. I will paint and clean the entire night if necessary. How’s that?” “Acceptable, although by the time you get here, it may not be necessary.” “I hear you have quite a gang.” “Specifically, we’ve got the entire sisterhood here with brooms and buckets. Someone also made an announcement over at the JCC. Six people came down to clean and paint— one guy actually being a professional painter. Wanda, who’s been a doll, actually called up her church and recruited several volunteers. Even the people from the press have offered to help. We’d like to start already.” “Detective Bontemps told me they’re almost done.” “It’s just so . . . ugly, Peter. Every time I look at it, I get sick all over. Everyone feels the same way.” “Who is down there from the press?” “L.A. Times, Daily News, there are some TV cameras, but Wanda isn’t letting them in yet.” “Good for her.” “Have you narrowed down your suspect list?” Rina asked. “I’m making a couple of calls. I’ll let you know if I have any luck.” He waited a moment. “I love you, darlin’. I’m glad you have so much support over there.”

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“I love you, too. And those mumzerim haven’t heard the last from me. This isn’t going to happen again!” “I admire your commitment.” “Nothing to admire. This isn’t a choice, this is an assignment. Have you checked out the pawnshops?” “What?” “For the silver kiddush cup. Someone may have tried to pawn it.” “Actually no, I haven’t checked out the pawnshops.” “You should do that right away. Before the pawnbroker gets wind of the fact that he has something hot.” “Anything else, General?” “Nothing for the moment. Someone’s calling me, Peter. I’ll give you back to Detective Bontemps.” Wanda said, “She’s quite the organizer.” “That’s certainly true. Thanks for helping out.” “It’s the least I could do.” Decker said, “The taggers you were referring to, Wanda. Most of them went to private school.” “Some of them did—Foreman Prep . . . Beckerman’s.” “That could work in our favor. I’d have a hard time doing search and seizure with kids in public school. But in private school, they are subjected to different rules. Lots of the places have bylaws allowing the administration to open up random lockers to do contraband searches.” “Why would a private school administrator agree to do that for us, sir?” “Because it would look bad if they didn’t help us out. Like they were hiding something. Chances are I won’t find much . . . a secret stash or two.” “What specific contraband would you be looking for, sir? Anti-Semitic material?” “A silver wine cup.” “Aha. That makes sense.” “It’s worth a try,” Decker said.

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But one not without controversy or consequences. Because in order to appear objective—and the police needed to appear objective—he’d have to search several of the private schools, including Jacob’s Jewish high school. He’d start with that one.

∂3 What’s the address?” Webster asked. Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?” “Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?” “Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?” “When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.” “Yeah, it’s personal.” “It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.” “Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?” 18

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“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.” Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.” “The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.” Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer. The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.” “Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!” A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses. “Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?” Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames— Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article.

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The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later. “A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.” Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “It’s all over the news,” Webster said. “I don’t watch the news.” “You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.” “That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?” “Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.” A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffeecolored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races. “May I ask who you all are?” he said. “Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.” “No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.” “That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said. The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!” “They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?” “And since when do you believe everything someone says?

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You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?” Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?” “Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?” “Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked. “I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.” “S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?” “You barge in—” “She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?” “I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.” “Alone?” “Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.” “And this morning?” Webster inquired. “Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty . . . or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.” “Go on,” Webster pushed. “I exercised on my treadmill . . . ate breakfast . . . read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?” “How about your complete names for starters.” “Darrell Holt.” Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.” “Erin Kershan.”

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Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. AfricanAmericans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—” “And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt. “I’m Acadian, if you must know.” “You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said. “The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself . . .” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.” “So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said. Holt bristled. “I am not talking about bloodlines, I’m talking ethnicity. My ethnicity is Acadian and it is my wish to preserve my ethnic purity. It is our opinion that the mixing of ethnicities has ruined civilization and certainly the individualization and pride of too many cultures. Immigration has turned everything into one big amorphous blob. Look at cuisine! You go out to a French restaurant when you’re in the mood for French food. Or perhaps a Mexican restaurant when you want enchiladas. Or Italian or American or Southern or Tunisian whenever you want the various cuisines. Imagine what it would be like if you mixed up all these nuances, all the flavors. Individually they work; together, they’d make for one horrible stew.” “We are not beef Stroganoff, sir,” Martinez said. “Food isn’t the issue. Crime is the issue. Vandalism is a crime. What happened today at the synagogue constitutes a hate crime. The vandals will be found, and they will be punished. So if

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you know something, I suggest you get a load off now. Because if we come back, it’s going to be bad for you.” “You have us all wrong.” Holt picked up a handful of leaflets and handed them to Martinez. “You’ll probably throw them away. But should you care to enlighten yourself enough to give us a fair shake, you’ll see that what we say makes a lot of sense.” Erin broke in. “We have all kinds of members.” “All kinds of ethnicities,” Holt added. “We cater to the disenfranchised.” “Like who?” Martinez asked. “Read our flyers. Our members write the articles.” He plunked a few from the table. “This one—on the ills of affirmative action—was written by an African-American, Joe Staples. This one is on English as a second language in America, written by an ex-Marine turned psychologist.” He focused in on Martinez. “Mr. Tarpin is just elucidating a well-known point. That in the United States we have only one official language and that language is English. If you read it, you’ll see that he has nothing against Hispanics. Everyone who lives in the U.S. should speak English.” He smiled. “Just like you’re doing right now.” “I’m glad Mr. . . .” Martinez looked at the flyer. “Mr. Tarpin would approve of my English skills.” “Which makes sense, being as Detective Martinez is American,” Webster stated. “Which means, if you’re Canadian, Mr. Holt, Detective Martinez is more of an American than you are. And if you advocate people staying with their own kind, maybe you should go back to Canada.” Webster was florid with fury, his hands bunched into fists. Martinez, on the other hand, was completely impassive, glancing at Mr. Tarpin’s words on why English was such a wonderful, expressive, and large language. That was certainly true enough. Compared to Spanish’s blooming buds, English was an entire bouquet of flowers because it used words from a variety of other languages. The irony was lost on the author.

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Martinez said, “Did you print these flyers yourself?” “The PEI did. Absolutely.” “Things were left behind in the synagogue,” Martinez said. “Nazi slogans that were printed on flyers just like these.” “There’s a Kinko’s about a mile away from here,” Holt retorted. “Why don’t you ask them about it?” Webster said, “And if we were to download your computer files, we wouldn’t find neo-Nazi groups bookmarked on your favorite places?” “No, you would not,” Holt said confidently. “But even if you did find anything you deem as offensive, it still proves nothing. I did not vandalize anything!” “There were also photographs left behind at the temple,” Martinez said. “Horrible pictures of holocaust victims—” “That’s terrible,” Erin piped up. “That’s not our thing.” “What is your thing?” “Erin, I’ll handle this,” Holt said. She ignored him. “Our thing is keeping ethnic identity pure. Gosh, we do it with animals—purebred this and purebred that. So what’s so wrong about wanting people to stay pure? You call it racism, but like Darrell stated, we are not racists! We are preservationists. We have nothing against Jews as long as they stick with Jews, and stop controlling the stock market—” “Erin—” “I’m just saying what Ricky says. He says the Jews control all the computers. Just look at Microsoft!” “Erin, the head of Microsoft is William Gates III,” Holt said. “Does that sound like a Jewish name?” “No.” “That’s because William Gates III is not Jewish. If Ricky told you that, Ricky is full of shit!” Erin’s mouth formed a soft O. “Who’s Ricky?” Martinez asked. “Some jerk . . .” Holt made a face at Erin. “Why do you bring him up?”

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“You said he was your friend. Didn’t you go to Berkeley together?” Holt rolled his eyes. To the cops, he said, “Ricky Moke is to the right of Hitler. Why don’t you go hassle him?” “Where can we find him?” “That’s a good question,” Erin said. “He hides out a lot.” “Erin, shut up!” “Don’t yell at me, Darrell. You were the one who gave the cops his last name.” “Is this Moke a fugitive?” Erin and Darrell exchanged glances. Holt said, “Moke tells lots of stories. Among them is this tale about his being a wanted fugitive.” “What is Moke supposedly wanted for?” “Bombings.” The cops exchanged glances. “Bombing what?” Webster asked. “Synagogues?” Holt shook his head. “Animal laboratories. Not the actual cages, just the data centers. Ricky, by his own admission, is an animal lover.”

∂4 Torah Academy of West Hills had been molded from an old veterinary clinic. It must have been a thriving practice, and for big animals, because the examination rooms were extra large though still too small for classrooms. So the majority of actual learning took place in prefab trailers that filled the parking lot, save for a few science classes that were held in the animal morgue. The other clinic rooms had been turned into offices for the administration. Decker knew that the school, like everything in this community, was run on hope, volunteers, and the occasional out-of-the-blue donation. Rabbi Jeremy Culter was in charge of secular studies. He was in his mid-thirties, and considered very modern for an Orthodox rabbi. In addition to being ordained as a rabbi, he had a Ph.D. in education and, most telling, he didn’t have a beard. He was fair complexioned and on the short side—trim with very long and developed arms. His office held a minimal look—a desk, a couple of chairs, and a bookshelf filled with sepharim—Jewish books—as well as books on psychology, sociology, and philosophy. The walls were cedar-paneled and still retained a faint antiseptic odor, along with an occasional waft of urine. Usually, when Decker visited the school, he wore a yarmulke—a skullcap. But today he was there not as a father but 26

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in an official capacity. He didn’t wear a yarmulke when he worked because he often dealt with people who hated him in particular and cops in general, and he didn’t want to give any psycho-felon anti-Semite any more fodder to use against Jews. Still, sitting in front of Culter, he felt exposed without a head covering. If Culter noticed, he didn’t let on. He said, “I can’t believe you actually think that one of our own boys—your son’s classmates—desecrated a shul and left concentration-camp photos around? Children with grandparents who are survivors!” Decker looked at him. “How’d you find out about the specifics of the crime?” “This is a small community. Do I really have to explain this to you?” “Did my wife call you?” The rabbi shook his head. “Must have been one of the members of the bucket brigade.” Decker smiled at him. “I’ve just assigned you the role of my clergyman. Now I have confidentiality. Okay with you?” Rabbi Culter said, “Go on.” “This is the deal. We’re calling it a random drug check for the boys. I’m going to use that ruse with all the schools I’m going to. What I’m looking for is evidence of who might have done this. If you and your school cooperate with me, Rabbi, I’ll have muscle when dealing with the other privates.” Culter nodded. “The law is an objective animal and so are the police.” “Exactly,” Decker said. “If I searched my own son’s school, then what excuses can the other principals give me?” “You’re getting resistance?” “You’re the first school, so I’ll find out. But I can tell you that no swanky private school will freely admit having vandals in their student body. It doesn’t sit well with the parents who pay enormous tuition bills.” He pointed to his chest. “I can attest to that personally.”

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“Are you positive that kids did the crime?” “No, I’m not. The police are checking out a number of leads. I’ve assigned myself the role of school snoop. Lucky me. This isn’t going to give me status with my stepson—invading the privacy of Jacob and his friends. But it’s worth it if I get results. When other principals see a clergyman not attempting to protect his own, what excuse do they have?” “The parents are not going to be pleased.” “Rabbi, I want to nail these bastards. I know you do, too.” Culter lifted his brows. “So I’m supposed to tell everyone that it’s just a random drug check.” “If you could do that, it would be extremely helpful.” “What if . . .” The rabbi folded his hands over his desk. “What if you find something incriminating on your son?” “Meaning?” Decker kept his face flat. “I think you know what I mean. Yaakov has given me the impression that you two talk about personal matters.” A very long pause. He rubbed his nose with his index finger. “Perhaps I just spoke out of turn.” “You mean drugs?” Culter shrugged. Decker said, “Jake spoke to me about marijuana use. If it’s more than that, I don’t know about it.” The rabbi was stoic. “What are you going to do, Lieutenant, if you find anything in his locker?” It was a legitimate question, and it churned Decker’s stomach. “I’ll decide if and when I have to deal with it. Right now, I’m willing to take a chance. Because I really want these punks behind bars. Please help me out. Help the community out. Not only do we want to find the perpetrators, but we don’t want this to happen again.” “I agree.” “So you’ll help me?” “With reluctance, but yes, I will help you.” “Thank you, thank you!” Decker stood. “All right. Let’s get this over with.” “Are you personally going to do the searches?”

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“Yep. If it turns out okay, I’ll take the credit. If not, I’ll accept the blame. Where do you want to be during this fiasco?” “By your side,” Culter said. “You’re not the only one who believes in justice.” The contraband consisted of a few dirty magazines, as well as several plastic bags of suspicious-looking dried herbs, enough for Decker to act the bad guy and scare a few kids into behaving better. He used fear rather than actual punishment, effective in getting the point across. Yonkie’s locker was literally clean, stacked neatly and free of garbage. The teen’s recent behavior had indicated a change for the good, but Decker couldn’t deny the relief of just one less thing to worry about. As it was, there were going to be repercussions because the kids didn’t understand why Decker—an Orthodox Jewish lieutenant—had singled them out. It played to the boys as the gestapo sending in Jewish capos to persecute their own. Yonkie did have the sense to keep his mouth shut, but his eyes burned with anger and humiliation. There’d be trouble at home, but Decker would tolerate it. His strategy had worked. Even before he had cleared out of the yeshiva, Decker had phoned and received an appointment with Headmaster Keats Williams from the exclusive Foreman Prep boys’ school. If the rabbis had agreed to a check, what excuse did the others now have? Decker was at his car when Yonkie caught up to him. Almost seventeen, the boy had heart-throbbing good looks with piercing ice-blue eyes and coal-black hair. Even in the school’s uniform—white shirt and blue slacks—he was more matinee idol than bumbling teen. The kid was glancing over his shoulder, his body jumping like fat on a griddle. He said, “This had nothing to do with my former drug use, right?” “Right.” “Because you couldn’t have orchestrated all this just to check up on me.” “Correct.”

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“I mean, even you don’t have that kind of power.” “No, I don’t have that kind of power, and that would be a big abuse of power.” “Yeah . . . right. So there had to be another reason.” Decker could have kissed the boy. “Very good.” “My friends don’t know that, though. They’re totally wigged. They think you’re pissed at me and taking it out on them.” “That’s ridiculous.” “I told them that you’re not from Narcotics. That this is a separate thing. So this whole drug search is probably a screen for something. Does this have anything to do with the shul being vandalized?” Decker hesitated. “Who told you about that?” “Dad, it’s all over the school. Everyone knows and is pretty freaked out about it. Now you’re here . . . You couldn’t think that one of us did it? I can’t believe you’d think that. It’s ludicrous.” Decker didn’t answer. “Oh, man!” Yonkie turned away, then faced him again. His face was moist and flushed. “You know, they’re going to talk against you. About how you’re picking on your own people because we’re easy targets. Eema’s going to take a lot of flak. If you had to do this, why did you come personally? To show your bosses that you’re not biased? You should be biased. You should have excused yourself. You should be at Beckerman’s or Foreman Prep. Or do the rich get special privileges?” Yonkie was a mass of burning indignation, and Decker tried to take it in stride. What had to be done, had to be done. But the words hurt more than he’d like to admit. “I’m not responding to this. You’d better go back to class—” “It’s not enough that they snicker behind your back,” Yonkie shot out. “You have to make me and Eema and Hannah pariahs as well?” The barbs cut deep. Such venom from the mouth of a child

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that he had raised and had taken on as his own. “Jacob, I’m sorry that my position as a cop put you at odds with your friends. But it can’t be helped. I really have to go.” “Where are you going?” Yonkie demanded to know. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Foreman Prep.” The boy was quiet, his mind tumbling for something to say. He had reddened with embarrassment. “So you’re like . . . checking out all the schools?” Decker offered him a tolerant smile. “I’m checking out everything. The vandalism was vicious. It qualifies as a hate crime that carries extra weight and extra punishments. I’d like to nab the perps. I assume you’d like that, too. That much we can agree upon. Good-bye.” Jacob blurted out, “Did I just put my foot in my mouth?” “Don’t worry about it.” The boy turned his head away but didn’t move. “I used to keep my mouth shut. I never spoke my mind no matter what I was thinking.” He scratched his face. Bits of beard stubble were shadowing his cheek and it irritated him. Jacob used to have a stunning complexion. Porcelain smooth with hints of red at the cheekbones. His skin was still blemish free, but coarser now, like that of a young man. “What the hell happened to me?” “You had secrets, and were afraid to talk. Now you don’t have secrets. The trade-off is a big mouth. It’s fine, Jake. I’m a tough guy; I can take a little sassing. I’ll see you at home tonight.” “This whole thing was just a setup.” Jacob was whispering, more to himself than to Decker. “So you could go to the other places and say, ‘I’m checking out everyone, including my own son’s high school.’ Then they wouldn’t have an excuse.” He looked at his stepdad. “Am I right?” “Shut up and go back to class.” “I’m really stupid.” “More like impulsive.”

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“That’s true, too.” Instinctively, the kid reached out and hugged him quickly. Then he took off, embarrassed by his sudden display of emotion. Decker bit his lip and watched him run away. Standing alone, he whispered, “I love you, too.”

∂5 Driving up to

Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of the difference between parochial private schools and preparatory private schools. The acreage of Foreman was vast and green, shaded by specimen willows and stately sycamores. Behind the layers of arboreal fence were sprawling, Federalist-style, brick buildings. Or probably brickfaced, because architects did not design solid brick structures in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whether they were brick or brick-faced, the edifices were impressive and sufficiently ivy-covered to evoke dreams of the eastern universities. Decker didn’t care about the form, but he did care about the content. Foreman Prep had a course catalogue that could rival those of most colleges. Both Decker’s stepsons could have gotten in, but Rina wouldn’t hear of it. Religious education was paramount even if the current yeshiva had minimal grounds and rotating teachers. For her—and for the memory of her late husband—some things were nonnegotiable. The headmaster, Keats Williams, was a double for Basil Rathbone except for the bald head—a topographic map of veins and bumps pressing against shiny skin. His eyes were hazel green, and his speech held a slight British accent. Affected? Probably. But at least he allowed Decker to present his scheme without sneering. As the headmaster lectured back his response, Decker’s eyes sneaked glances, trying not 33

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to widen at the richness of Williams’s office—something that Churchill would have been comfortable in. He wasn’t just a headmaster. Nor was he just a doctor of sociology as indicated by his Ivy League diploma. No, Williams was more. Much more. Williams was a friggin’ CEO. “We just had an all-school drug check,” the headmaster informed Decker. “We have a zero tolerance for drugs at the school. Drugs, weapons, and explicitly sexual material. Even the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated is not to be brought to school, although it isn’t grounds for suspension—the first time. It’s impossible to keep teenage boys from thinking about sex. It’s always there just like a pulse. Still, that doesn’t mean it has to be addressed all the time. We’re out to train progressive minds.” Decker said, “I heard about that. I’ve also heard that your school offers a very liberal freedom-of-speech policy, including platforms on abortion, legalization of opiates and prostitution, and euthanasia.” “You’ve heard correctly.” “You don’t shy away from controversy.” “Indeed. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that these are but some of the issues that have come before our legislative body. We like to keep our students up-to-date . . . topical if you will. However, controversial issues do not extend to hate crimes, which are odious and against the law. I know you’re using drugs as an entrée to students’ lockers, but if you find any . . . and I do mean any evidence . . . that any of our boys are behind this heinous event, I want to know about it immediately. Proper remedies will be taken to assure that this issue will be addressed.” “Doctor, if I find proof that one of your boys was part of this morning’s vandalism, he will be arrested.” Williams was silent. It was one thing for him to reprimand and even to punish the students involved. It was quite another for their felonies to be broadcast over airwaves—not the PR that Foreman Prep liked. “Exactly how do you determine proof?”

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“It varies.” “If you should find proof . . . or perhaps the correct word might be ‘evidence’?” “‘Evidence’ is fine,” Decker said. “And if it should be necessary . . . for you to take appropriate action, is there a way that this can be handled . . . without a tremendous amount of fanfare?” “I have no intention of calling up the press.” “And if the press should call you?” Decker was silent. The headmaster placed his hands, fingers fanned out, on his highly polished walnut desktop. “Our boys are minors. If their names are released to the press, there will be problems.” “Dr. Williams,” Decker chided. “Surely you don’t advocate suppression of the public’s right to know.” “Innocent until proven guilty,” Williams stated. Decker smiled. Spoken like a true American with his ass against the wall. “I’m Dr. Jaime Dahl—special services administrator.” Decker stuck out his hand. “Thank you for taking the time—” “I didn’t volunteer for this witch-hunt, it was foisted upon me.” A swish of blond hair. “Let’s get that straight. I don’t approve of any kind of searches. I believe it’s a violation of civil rights.” His day to get grief. Yet it wasn’t entirely her fault. At Decker’s behest, Dr. Williams hadn’t informed her or anyone else of the true purpose of the search. She’d probably be appalled by hate crimes, though she’d no doubt retort with, “One violation doesn’t excuse another.” Through designer eyeglasses, she was slinging wicked looks his way. What made it worse was she was a fox— around twenty-five, with lush lips and knockout legs. She was wearing a black business suit and looked more like an actress playing the part of a school administrator. If this were a Hollywood script, they’d be in bed an hour from now. He

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must have inadvertently smiled, because her eyes grew angrier. She sneered at him. Too bad. He hated being dissed by anyone, let alone a fox. She spoke in a clipped cadence. “Follow me.” She led him down a flight of stairs, through a long, wide Berber-carpeted hallway, designated the student locker area. They were waiting for him—rows of adolescent boys standing next to their little bit of privacy, their hands at their sides. Two uniformed guards were watching them. The scene made Decker feel as if he were the aggressor, and that didn’t sit well with him. He stopped. “Is there any specific place I should start?” “One is as good as the next.” Jaime tapped her toe, her left buttock moving with each rhythmical click of the shoe. “Let’s go from freshmen to seniors. They know what to do. They just went through the routine drill a few weeks ago.” “They may know the drill, but I don’t.” Jaime sighed impatiently. “One boy at a time will open his locker, swing the door all the way out, then take two steps back. Then you do your search and seizure. When you’re done, you step away and let the boy close his locker. Give them back a little piece of their stripped dignity.” “That sounds fine—” “I’m glad you approve,” Jaime snapped back. “Shall we get on with it?” “The quicker I’m out of here, the happier I am.” “I suppose that about sums it up for me, as well.” “Why are you so unhappy about this, Dr. Dahl? Drug checks are part of standard operation in this school. You had to have known that when you took the job.” “For the administration to do what’s necessary to maintain standards—that’s one thing. We don’t need the gendarmes telling us how to run our school.” “Ah—” “Yes, ah!” Decker’s smile was wide. He tried to hold it back and that only made her angrier. She stomped over to the first lad—a

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fourteen-year-old moonfaced kid with a sprig of freckles across the nose—and asked him to open his locker. He did, following Jaime Dahl’s drill to a tee. Decker was impressed. Inside were papers, notebooks, pens, a few car magazines, and lots of candy wrappers. “Thank you,” Decker said, taking a step backward. The boy closed his locker. Jaime told him that he could go. The boy left. One down, about three hundred to go. The tenth kid had a locker containing two bottles of pills. They looked to be prescription. He asked Jaime about them. “As long as the medicine is from a doctor, we allow it into the school.” “Can I pick up the bottles?” he asked her. “Why are you asking me? You’re in charge.” He picked up the bottles. “It’s all the same medicine.” “I have a note,” the kid said anxiously. “You can call my mom.” Decker looked him over. A stick of a kid: he was shaking. “I’m just wondering why you need sixty pills of any kind at school when the dose is one a day . . . at night.” The kid said nothing. Decker put the bottle back inside his locker. “Something you might want to think about. Someone could get the wrong idea . . . like you were selling off the excess. Of course, I know that’s not the case. But . . . it kinda looks bad.” The kid mumbled a pathetic “Yessir.” “It’s all right, Harry,” Jaime comforted him. “We can talk about this later.” “Yes, Dr. Dahl.” Decker went on to the next one, then the next. Over the course of the next hour, he found lots of bottles that looked suspect. Either they were genuine pharmaceutical containers with pills that didn’t match the prescribed medicine, or they carried counterfeited labels altogether. Since medicine was allowed, Decker left it up to Jaime to discipline. Usually, a

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stern look from the beautiful doctor was enough to send the boys into paroxysms. Decker felt for the kids, just like he had felt for Jacob after the boy had confessed his drug use. Kids had a way of doing that to him, making him feel bad even when he was just doing his job. Rooting through the trash of rotting food, old papers, wrappers, and garbage. Not to mention old, wet gym clothes that smelled riper than decayed roadkill. Besides the pills, Decker found more than a fair share of cigarette butts—tobacco and otherwise. He pretended not to notice them. He also came upon packages of condoms—most of them unopened. There were also lots of pinups—mostly female, but there were some studly males as well. All of the posers wore smiles and adequate amounts of clothing. He also found several indiscreet Polaroids that he conveniently overlooked. It didn’t take long before Jaime Dahl became acutely aware of his omissions. It didn’t make her friendlier, but it did make her curious. She said, “You’re not taking notes.” “Pardon?” “I see you’re not making note of any of the material you’re finding.” “I haven’t found anything significant.” “What would you consider significant?” The blue eyes narrowed. “You’re obviously not from Narcotics. Why are you here?” Suddenly, she took his arm and pulled him aside, out of earshot of the waiting students. She whispered, “Surely a police lieutenant has better things to do with himself than to hassle young minds in the throes of experimentation for freedom.” “Surely.” “You didn’t answer my question.” It was Decker’s turn to narrow his eyes. It seemed to unnerve her. “If we can’t be buddies, maybe we can try civility?” “I know your type. Don’t even think about asking me out!”

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He stared at her, then laughed. What’s on your mind, honey? He said, “My wife would have a few choice words to say to me if I did.” Her eyes went to his hand. Decker said, “Not all married men wear wedding rings.” “Only the ones who don’t want women to know they’re married.” “Dr. Dahl, I’ve got a wife, four kids, three stifling privateschool tuitions, a choking home mortgage, and car payments on a Volvo station wagon that’s already out of alignment. I’ve got the whole nine yards of suburbia. And I’m still smiling because deep down inside, despite my cynical view of this entire planet that we call Earth, I am a very happy man. Can we move on, please? I have a schedule and I bet you do as well.” She regarded his face but said nothing. Decker took the silence as an invitation to finish up. He was up to the senior class, and had gone halfway through its roster without finding anything incriminating. He was discouraged by his failure, but encouraged by it as well. Maybe the school was really the best and the brightest. He was almost done, finishing the last row of lockers. One of them belonged to a good-looking boy of seventeen— around six feet tall and muscular. He wore his brown hair in a buzz cut and had storm-colored eyes—electric and very dark blue. His locker was free of contraband and very neat. No pictures, nothing chemical, nothing out of place. Yet there was something on the kid’s face, a smirk that spoke of privilege. Decker met the kid’s eyes, held them for a moment. “Let me see your backpack—” “What?” The boy blinked, then recovered. “This isn’t the procedure,” Jaime stated. “I know,” Decker said. He turned to the boy. “Do you object?” “Yes, I do.” The muscular boy tapped his foot several times. “I object on principle. It’s an invasion of my civil rights.”

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Again, Decker met the kid’s eyes. “What’s your name?” “Do I have to answer that?” the boy asked. Decker smiled, turned to Jaime Dahl. “What’s his name?” Putting her in a bind. It was beginning to look like the stud was hiding something. If she didn’t at least minimally cooperate, she’d look like she was hiding something as well. Reluctantly, she said, “Answer the question.” The boy’s name was Ernesto Golding. Decker said, “Let me make a deal with you, Ernesto. I’m not interested in drugs, pills, weapons . . . well, maybe weapons. You have a stash in there, and tell me it’s fish food, I’ll believe you.” “Then why do you want to look in his backpack?” Jaime asked. “I have my reasons.” He smiled. “What do you say?” The boy was silent. Jaime looked at him. “Ernie, it’s up to you.” “This is clearly police abuse.” Decker shrugged. “If she won’t make you do it, I don’t have any choice. But you’ll hear from me again, son. Next time I may not be so generous.” Ernesto stood on his tiptoes, attempting a pugilistic stance. “Are you threatening me?” “Nah, I never threaten—” “Sounds like a threat to me.” “Shall we move on, Dr. Dahl?” But Jaime didn’t move on. Instead, she said, “Ernie, give him your backpack.” “What?” “Do it!” The boy’s face turned an intense red. He dropped the pack at his feet, the storm in his eyes shooting lightning. Decker picked the knapsack up and immediately gave it to Jaime. “You look through it. I don’t want to be accused of planting anything. Tell me if you see anything unusual.” “What am I looking for?”

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“You’ll know it when you see it.” What Decker expected to find were obscene photographs of concentration-camp victims. What Jaime Dahl pulled out was a silver kiddush cup.

∂6 It stood out, a surface of metal against books and papers. Decker brought his eyes over to the young man’s face. Ernesto Golding was dressed in khakis and a white shirt. Ernesto Golding had intense eyes on a good-looking face, a broad forehead, and weightlifter’s arms. Ernesto Golding didn’t look like a thug. He looked like a macho teen with better things on his mind than killing Jews. Decker took a handkerchief from his pocket and held up the kiddush cup. “Where’d you get this?” Ernesto folded his arms across his chest, pushing out his bulging biceps with his fists. “It’s a family heirloom.” “And why are you bringing a family heirloom to school?” The boy’s face was an odd combination of fear and defiance. “Show-and-tell, sir.” I’ll bet you’ve been doing lots of show-and-tell, Decker thought. Jaime spoke up. “What’s going on?” “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Decker answered. But his eyes remained on his prey. “The cup has some Hebrew writing on it. See here?” He showed it to Golding. “It’s easy Hebrew. Read it for me.” “I don’t read Hebrew—” “I thought you said it was a family heirloom.” “My family’s origins are Jewish. But that doesn’t mean that I know Hebrew. It’s like assuming every Italian knows Latin.” 42

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Decker was taken aback. “Your family’s Jewish?” “No, my family is not Jewish. We’re humanists with ancestry in the Jewish race.” The Jewish race—a Nazi buzz phrase. “I don’t want to repeat myself,” Jaime stated bluntly, “but what is going on?” Decker said, “Did you listen to the news this morning, Dr. Dahl?” “Of course.” “Then you must know that a local synagogue was broken into and vandalized. I was down there. Most of the damage was ugly, but it can be repaired. The one thing that was reported stolen was a silver benediction cup.” Jaime looked at Ernesto, then at Decker, who held up the cup. “This family heirloom is inscribed with the words ‘Beit Yosef.’ That’s the name of the vandalized synagogue.” “It’s a family heirloom,” Ernesto insisted. “We’re doing a family history. A family tree for honors civics. Dr. Dahl is aware of this assignment. Back me up on this one, Doctor.” “There is a family-tree assignment in honors civics—Dr. Ramparts.” “Yeah. Third period.” Ernesto rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I brought this in specifically to illustrate my family’s past, and to give Dr. Ramparts a more . . . genuine feel for where I came from. I’m sure there is more than one Beit Yosef in the world.” The kid was oh so cool. And he probably thought he was pulling it off. Never mind about the beads of sweat that dotted his upper lip. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Golding. Even so, you’re coming with me.” “I want a lawyer.” “That can be arranged.” They took him to Dr. Williams’s office, Decker standing over Ernesto’s shoulder as the kid called his parents—Jill and Carter Golding. Decker could hear outraged voices on the other side of the line. He couldn’t discern much, but he did

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hear them instruct Ernesto to refrain from talking to anyone. From that point on, things moved quickly. Mom made it down in six minutes. She was a pixie of a thing with pinched features and thin, light brown hair that was long, straight, and parted in the center. She wore rimless glasses and no makeup. Behind the specs, her eyes were smoldering with anger that only a parent knew how to muster. First, there were a few choice glances thrown in Decker’s direction. The stronger ones were reserved for her son. Decker knew what that was about. Dad arrived about ten minutes later. He was short and thin. The eyes were dark and most of the face was covered with a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with silver. He appeared more befuddled than angry. He even shook hands with Decker when introduced. Ernesto didn’t resemble either of his parents, leaving Decker to wonder if the boy had been adopted. The last part of the equation came in on Dad’s heels. Everett Melrose was an Encino lawyer who had made a name in California Democratic politics. He was well built, well tanned, and had the appropriate amount of sincerity in the eyes and distinction in the curly gray hair. He wore designer suits and dressed with flair. He had a wife, six kids, and was active in his church. He had defended some very big and bad people in his years, and had come out on top. Melrose’s past was squeaky clean as far as Decker knew. Amazing—a lawyer and a politician with nothing to hide. He shook hands all the way around and requested that he speak to his client, the young Ernesto, in private. His request was granted. The twenty minutes that followed were protracted and tense. When they came back into Headmaster Williams’s CEO office, Ernesto looked upset, but Melrose was unreadable. He said, “Can you tell me the basis for this detainment?” Decker said, “Your client has a stolen cup in his possession—”

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“Have we determined that the cup was stolen?” Melrose asked innocently. “My client claims that the cup was an heirloom.” Decker said, “Counselor, the cup belonged to the synagogue, Beit Yosef, that was vandalized this morning—” “That’s impossible!” Jill broke in. “Impossible that the synagogue was vandalized, or impossible that your son could have some involvement in the crime—” “Don’t answer that!” Melrose interrupted. “Ernesto, what is going on?” Carter asked. “I wish I knew, Dad.” Ernesto tapped his toe and made eye contact with the floor. A good bluff, but not a great one. Decker said, “The cup was taken from Ernesto’s backpack. That’s a fact. Dr. Dahl was there as a witness.” “Did he give you permission to search his backpack?” “Absolutely not,” Ernesto stated. “It’s irrelevant whether or not you gave him permission!” Carter Golding spoke out. “I’d like to know what it’s doing in your possession.” “So you’re saying it’s not a family heirloom?” Decker remarked. “Carter, please!” Melrose said. “He’s not saying anything. He’s not the subject of this inquiry. What I’m hearing is that no one was granted permission to check Ernesto’s backpack!” Dr. Williams came alive. “The school’s bylaws state that faculty can search lockers and personal property of any student at any given time to hunt out contraband or unlawful substances. Mr. Golding is aware of the bylaws. He has signed an honor code, acknowledging such rules with a promise to abide by them. So have Mr. and Mrs. Golding. It is a requirement of attending the school.” “Lieutenant Decker is not faculty.” “Dr. Dahl is faculty,” Decker countered. “She was the one who ordered Ernesto to open his knapsack.”

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A few seconds of silence before Melrose turned his curious eyes on Jaime Dahl. “If you do routine searches for contraband, I’m assuming you have a list as to what constitutes contraband?” “Of course.” “And does it say specifically what items are contraband?” “Stolen items are contraband,” Williams interjected. “So a cup is not illegal.” “The stolen cup is illegal,” Decker said. “According to you, Lieutenant, a silver cup was reported stolen from a synagogue,” Melrose pointed out. “How do you know for certain that this is the cup in question? There may be hundreds like it.” “Do you want proof that the cup belongs to the synagogue? That can be arranged. I can probably even dig up the original sales receipt. But I’ll tell you one thing for your own benefit, in case your client wants to change his story. That cup isn’t an heirloom. We bought it a year ago when the synagogue began having regular kiddushes after services.” “What’s a kiddushes?” Jaime Dahl asked. “Hors d’oeuvres after the Sabbath prayers. Before you eat, you need to make a benediction using wine. Hence, the silver cup.” Decker just realized that suddenly he was the resident Jewish expert. A position usually reserved for Rina, he felt strange occupying it now. Melrose said, “You know a lot about this particular synagogue. May I ask if you’re a member?” “You may ask, and I’ll even answer it, Counselor. Yes, I am a member.” “So you’re hardly an unbiased party in this investigation.” “That may be. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I can identify this cup as stolen.” Melrose bluffed it out. “None of this will hold up in court. It’s an illegal search and seizure done under false pretenses. You told the students that this was a routine contraband check.”

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Carter stood up. “Aren’t we missing the main issue? What were you doing with a cup from a vandalized synagogue, Ernesto?” “It isn’t the right time to talk about this,” Melrose said. Jill said, “This is all a mistake. Our son would never have anything to do—” “Are you going to arrest the boy?” Melrose asked. “Yes or no?” Decker sat back. He addressed his comments to Ernesto. “Mr. Golding, this isn’t going to go away. I am going to find out what happened, and if you’re involved, it’s going to come out. You can be in the catbird seat, or one of your cohorts can bring you down. Take your pick!” “Ernie, what’s going on?” his mother asked. “Nothing, Mom,” Ernesto answered. His breathing suddenly became audible. “He’s trying to psych you out. He’s a part of an organization of brutality. Police lie all the time. They’re never to be trusted. How many times have you told me that?” Decker saw Jill Golding’s cheeks turn pink. “Ernesto,” he said, “you talk to me, I can ask a judge for leniency. Most you’ll do is some community service. More important, if you cooperate, I can try to get your records sealed even though you’re almost eighteen. The Ivies would never have to hear about it.” “I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Ernesto answered. “Cops are pathological liars.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “Fine, son. Have it your way. I’ll recommend that you’re tried as an adult.” Ernesto stood up. “You can’t bully me into submission! I’ve had way worse nightmares!” He stomped out, slamming the door as he left. Mom was the next one out the door. Dad waited a beat, swore under his breath, and then took off as well. The quiet ticked away for a few moments. Decker said, “You want to bring him down, Mr. Melrose, or do I take out the handcuffs?”

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“I’ll get him.” Melrose left. Again the room fell silent. Jaime Dahl broke it. “I can’t believe it! Almost anyone but him!” She regarded Decker. “You still have a few boys left to search. Would you like me to do that?” “I’ll do it when I’m done with Ernesto. I’ll need a list of his friends—” “I don’t think I can do that, Lieutenant,” Jaime answered. “Finking is not part of the contract.” “Finking?” “It’s one thing to catch a student with stolen goods, it’s quite another to have a boy rat another out.” “The synagogue was a horrible mess,” Decker said. “Pictures of dead Jews were thrown all over the place. He didn’t do it alone. I want names!” Williams was about to offer some words, but the discussion was cut short. The door opened, and Ernesto tromped in. Still short of breath, he gasped out, “I want to talk to you.” Decker pointed to his chest. “Are you talking to me, Mr. Golding?” “Yeah, I’m talking to you . . . sir.” “I like the ‘sir’ part,” Decker said. “It shows civility.” The parents and Melrose materialized. Carter Golding was red-faced and furious. “I am the boy’s father. I demand to know what’s going on!” “I’m trying to get that done, Dad,” Ernesto said with anger. “Can you just . . . like lay off for a few moments—” “You’ve been accused of vandalizing a house of worship, and you want me to lay off?” “Carter, I know you’re upset, but please, let’s deal with one issue at a time,” Melrose said. Ernesto said, “I’ll tell this cop what’s going on, but first you’ve got to guarantee me what you just said . . . about it being sealed.” Melrose said, “Ernesto, the man is a police lieutenant. If you want someone to do you favors, start acting appropriately humble.” He looked at Decker. “What can you do?”

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“I could probably get his part pled down to malicious mischief, which will require some explaining since it’s a hate crime. But if it turns out he’s jiving me, all bets are off.” “What is malicious mischief?” Jill asked. “What does it mean?” “It means it’s a misdemeanor,” Melrose stated flatly. “I’m still not sure this is the best way.” “Why the change of heart?” Decker asked Ernesto. “I have my reasons,” the teen answered. “If you want to know about them, give me a guarantee.” “I’ll do the best I can,” Decker said. “Not good enough,” Ernesto stated. Decker stood and took out the cuffs. “Fair enough. You’re under arrest—” “Wait a damn minute!” Carter broke in. “Ernesto, once this man arrests you, you can’t be unarrested! Are you aware of that?” Ernesto was quiet. “It won’t hold up, Carter,” Melrose assured him. “He doesn’t have any rights here.” “Can you guarantee that?” No one spoke. “This is the situation, Ernesto,” Decker said. “You talk, I listen. If I like what I hear, I go to bat for you. If I don’t, you’re no worse off. I’ll still arrest you. But what you told me will be inadmissible because you spoke without a lawyer.” “No, no, no!” Melrose broke in. “Who said anything about his talking without representation?” “Counselor, if you’re there, then it’s official. I have to read him his rights. Then, as we all know, I can use his statements in a trial. If you’re not there, I can’t use anything.” “So what happens if you like what you hear?” Carter wanted to know. “He writes it all down in a witnessed confession statement. We seal it. Then I take it to the D.A. and probably he’ll plead him down to a simple wrist slap—” “Probably?”

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“Yes, probably. I can’t say for sure. This is the best I can do—” “I’ll take it,” Ernesto said. “Ernesto, you’re seventeen. You don’t have the final word. Do you understand that?” “And you’re fired, Mr. Melrose. Do you understand that?” “Ernie, what in the world is wrong with you?” Jill screamed. “Apologize!” “This is precisely why I can’t trust him without representation,” Melrose said. Ernesto tightened his fists. “This is my life here, Mr. Melrose. Not yours, not my mom’s, not Dad’s . . . my life.” He looked at Decker. “I can speak for myself.” Melrose said, “Carter, you can’t let him do this!” “Yes, he can,” Ernesto said. “My parents raised me with independence. Now they’re going to put their money where their mouths are and trust me to do the right thing!” And what could the Goldings say to that? Decker couldn’t have scripted it better. He broke in. “Where do you want to talk, Mr. Golding?” A pause. “Is there a vacant classroom somewhere?” “You can have the faculty lounge annex,” Williams stated. Ernesto said, “I have a calculus test last period. That’s in an hour. Can we wrap it up by then?” “That depends on what you have to tell me,” Decker said. “I’m not gonna miss my test,” Ernesto insisted. “I studied two hours for that sucker.” “Ernesto, calculus should not be foremost on your mind!” Jill barged in. “Calculus isn’t foremost on my mind, Ma, only getting an A in calculus. If I don’t get an A in calculus, I can kiss off the Ivies.” To Decker, he said, “You said the records would be sealed?” “If I like what I hear, I’ll make that recommendation.” “So I wouldn’t have to put anything on my college applications?” “Not if they’re sealed.”

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“So the universities wouldn’t know—” “Forget about college right now!” Carter snapped. “How can I forget about college, Dad!” Ernesto exploded. “Other than sex, college is all I ever think about. Because it’s all you and Mom ever think about!”

∂7 The prep school supplied lots of perks, among them the faculty lounge. It was set up like a café in a bookstore with tables, chairs, a few comfy sofas, and several computer stations, allowing teachers to go on-line and check their E-mail. Plenty of reading material—novels, nonfiction, magazines, and papers—sat on the built-in shelves that lined the walls. A few excellent pieces of student artwork were displayed. The biggest benefit, in Decker’s mind, was the in-house laundry service. When Dr. Dahl saw him gaping at the counter, she explained that the faculty worked long hours. It was the least they could do. Decker had to strain to hear her because, as they walked, Ernesto was sandwiched between them. He followed the administrator through the area, ignoring the steely looks of those who occupied the space. He said, “A place that does the wash. What’s your starting salary?” The woman actually cracked a smile. “It’s on the high side because all of our teachers have postcollege education.” An obvious slap in the face meant to put him in his place. Decker just shrugged. “I’m an attorney. Does that count?” She slowed, giving him a quick glance. “You’re an attorney?” “Once upon a time.” “You actually passed the bar?” 52

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“Now you’re getting insulting.” She blushed. “I didn’t mean—” “Yes, I passed the bar,” Decker said. Gently, Jaime guided Ernesto. “This way.” The annex was a blip of a room off the lounge. It was paneled, cozy, and held two tables, each with a computer, and several couches. It also had its own private rest rooms, which Decker found very impressive. They had interrupted a couple involved in a deep conversation. The young blond woman stood up, red-faced and red-eyed, smiling nervously at Dr. Dahl. The man—a bit older, in his thirties—remained on the couch, trying to adopt a casual demeanor, raking his hair with his fingers. Jaime said, “We need the room, Brent.” Slowly, the man got up. “Sure. Of course.” He walked out with the blond woman, a healthy distance between them. Jaime tried to stifle a sigh. To Decker, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?” “How about some water for the both of us?” Ernesto said, “I’m fine.” “I’ll bring some in, just in case.” Jaime left. “Where do I sit?” “Anywhere you want,” Decker answered. The teen looked around, deciding on the couch. “Are you really an attorney?” “Yes.” “Why are you a cop then?” Ernesto looked down. “Not that it’s any of my business.” “I like the job.” Decker took out his notebook. Ernesto said, “I saw this documentary once . . . about cops. Once they retire, they have a hard time readjusting to the civilian world. That’s what they call it, right?” He looked to Decker for confirmation, but Decker didn’t react. “Anyway, the moderator or narrator said something about cops being adrenaline junkies . . . that the regular world was a boring place compared to what they were used to. A high percentage

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of them commit suicide. Because they’ve been hooked on the adrenaline like others get hooked on drugs.” Decker said, “Are you hooked on drugs?” Ernesto shrugged. “Nah. Drugs are just for recreation. Something to do because the parties are so damn boring.” “Is that why you vandalized the synagogue? Because you were bored?” Jaime Dahl came back in the room with a bottle of Evian and two glasses. “Anything else?” “No, thank you.” Decker couldn’t keep the edge off his voice. He had wanted to say, Leave us the hell alone. Jaime picked up on it. “I’ll be waiting in the lounge.” “Where are my parents?” Ernesto asked her. “With Dr. Williams.” “Is Mr. Melrose there, too?” “Yes.” Decker said, “Any time you want to stop and consult your parents or lawyer, just let me know.” Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m all right. I can handle myself.” No one spoke. Jaime finally said, “I’ll be going, then.” Decker smiled. He even kept the smile after she closed the door, as he waited for the kid to speak. He tried to make eye contact. It lasted for a few seconds, then Ernesto’s gaze fell on other things. The computers’ screen savers, the candy machine, the landscape on the wall. His posture was casual, but the vein in the kid’s temple was pulsating, his jaw taut and bulging. He didn’t appear the least bit cocky. On the contrary, Ernesto was worried . . . troubled. “Actually, this is a good thing.” “What is?” Decker asked. “You and me here. I don’t want my parents or their lawyer to hear the full details of what happened.” “Their lawyer is your lawyer. You’re going to have to tell him.” “I will, but he doesn’t have to hear the details, either. I

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mean he needs details, but he doesn’t need . . .” Ernesto groped for the words. “Explicit details?” Decker tried. “Yeah. Exactly. I’ll tell you and maybe you can soften it around the edges.” “You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.” “No one was hurt, you know.” “Yes, that’s true.” “You think we can work something out?” “I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.” “And if you can’t work something out?” “Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.” He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels . . .” Silence. “But you’re bored,” Decker said. “Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.” No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?” “No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this . . . obsession. I . . . had to do it.” “You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?” “Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”

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“I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.” “My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.” Decker waited. “I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need . . . a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.” “I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.” “I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.” If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell. “Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.” “Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.” Decker nodded encouragement. “When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father . . . my paternal grandfather . . . was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion

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and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down . . . Do you know what they do?” “Golding Recycling.” “Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?” “Your parents are an entity.” “I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.” “As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.” “You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.” “You like your parents.” “Yeah . . . yeah, I do. I . . . admire them although I’m aware of their faults. That’s why this is all so screwed up.” “What’s screwed up?” “Me. I’ll tell you my part in the mess, but that’s as far as I’ll take it. I’m not a rat, I don’t name names.” “So there are others?” “I didn’t say that. For your purposes, I was the sole perpetrator.” “That’s ridiculous.” “That’s my story. Should I go on?” “I’m still here,” Decker said. The boy didn’t seem to know how to start. Decker helped him out. “Why did you vandalize the synagogue?” “That’s a good question. I have nothing against Jews.” He looked away. “It has more to do with my personal problems.

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I’ve always been obsessive-compulsive, and I’m not just throwing out psych terms. I’ve always had weird rituals. Some of them I’ve outgrown. But some . . . I can’t help it. We don’t have to go into specifics, but my obsessions are relevant because once I get a thought into my head, I can’t let go. And that’s the problem. I have these dreams . . . more like fantasies because I’m awake when I think about them. It has to do with my Jewish grandfather—Isaac Golding. Well, it turns out that he wasn’t Jewish. Matter of fact, I think he was a Nazi.” Decker kept his face flat. “Isaac’s a strange name for a Nazi.” “That’s because it wasn’t a real name. I found this all out about six months ago. Remember I told you the honors civics assignment?” “The family tree. Dr. Ramparts.” “Yeah. Exactly. It’s a semester project. Dr. Ramparts wants it done in detail and correctly. So I’ve been working on this for a while, mostly getting oral history down from my parents because all my grandparents are dead. But then I figure I should do paper research for the sake of completion. So I started going through trunks of old documents that my dad has buried in the attic.” “An attic?” Decker asked. “Yeah. I know that’s weird for L.A. homes. But like I said, we have a big home.” “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on. You’re digging through old documents.” “Yeah, right. I think my dad didn’t even know about the shit. It was given to him after his mother died.” Ernesto hesitated, then drank some water. “Anyway, my grandfather supposedly escaped the Nazis and moved to Argentina in 1937. Except old papers showed me that Grandpa’s account was off by ten years. From what I could tell, Grandpa actually came to South America in 1946 or 1947 under the name of

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Yitzchak Golding. Yitzchak is Isaac in Hebrew. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.” Decker nodded. Yitzchak was the name of Rina’s late husband—the father of his stepsons. Ernesto took a breather and went on. “So I figure okay . . . so Grandpa came after the war. He made a mistake. When I knew him, he was old and a little senile, so his absentmindedness is completely within context. So, I point out this little discrepancy to my dad, expecting a logical explanation. Instead, Dad freezes up, then accuses me of trying to stir up trouble . . . which was totally ridiculous. Usually, if Dad doesn’t want to talk about it, he just kind of gets this condescending smile and says something like ‘another time, Che.’ Dad calls me Che when he’s trying to prove a point. But this time he gets mad. He gets red in the face. He stomps off. I’m shocked. This means, you know, I hit a nerve.” Silence. Decker said, “So what happened?” “Nothing. I never brought it up, and certainly Dad never brought it up again.” “So now you’re curious and you have no logical explanation and no one to talk to.” “Exactly! I technically dropped it, but it’s been plaguing me. It’s on my mind all the time. Because I get to thinking that if Grandpa did come over in ’47, that must have meant that he was in Europe at the time of the war. And being a Jew during the war, he must have suffered somehow. Because I have a couple of friends whose grandparents were European and Jewish, and they have war stories. But I never remember hearing any war stories. Nothing about the . . . the Holocaust . . . the death camps. No survival tales, either.” “I understand.” “And furthermore, my grandfather’s family was intact— his parents and a sister—which would make sense if they all had come to South America in 1937. The camps weren’t in full operation until later on. But it wouldn’t make any sense

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for all of them to be alive if Grandpa came over in 1947. You get my drift?” “Your grandfather was an imposter.” “That was my conclusion. My dad told me that I got the dates mixed up. But I don’t think so.” “Do you have your grandfather’s birth certificate?” “No, and that’s a problem. Just some old papers. I did some further probing . . . a little of this and that. Called up some resources. I did find a Yitzchak Golding who was sent to Treblinka, a camp in Poland, in 1940. He never came back. His brothers and sisters were also sent to the death camps. So were his parents. None of them came back. No aunts, uncles, cousins . . . all of them gone. Dead. The family is as extinct as dinosaurs. I’m carrying the name for a bunch of Jewish ghosts. They’re haunting me, Lieutenant Decker. Day in and day out, they’re haunting me. Their faces and their corpses.” Golding looked up, his stormy eyes wild and wet. “I had to get rid of them. So I did what I had to do.” “You vandalized the synagogue.” He nodded. “Are the ghosts gone now?” He shook his head. “Of course not. They’ll never be gone unless I make peace with them. I don’t know if that’s possible. It’s hard to talk to ghosts. They only talk in dreams, you know.” Ernesto swiped his eyes. “I had this girlfriend for over a year. Lisa. She was wonderful—terrific, beautiful, smart. I broke up with her when I found out about Grandpa. I just couldn’t be with her anymore.” “She’s Jewish?” “Yeah.” “And that’s why you broke up with her?” “Of course. I was afraid of hurting her. Because of these dreams . . . these fantasies I have. I would never want to hurt her. I loved her. I still love her. But even after breaking up with her, the fantasies won’t go away. “The fantasies . . . they’re sexual. They repel me, but they

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also—in some sick, primal way—they excite me. We were having sex, but it was the normal kind. Now all I can think about is the sick kind. Demeaning her . . . hurting her. It makes me sick to think I’m like that. But I can’t help myself. Certain things you can’t hide, you know.” His pants were bulging. “All this shit going through my brain while I’m trying to take my SATs and SAT IIs. I . . . need . . . help!” It was a compelling case, and a sympathetic teenager. Decker was no shrink, but the kid seemed sincere. Not overly done, but clearly troubled. And what would Rina think if she found out that Decker was feeling sorry for the kid? “Tell me the details about the vandalism,” he said. “Where did you get the pictures? They looked original. Were they from a neo-Nazi group or part of the stuff you found in your attic?” “What difference does it make? I just got them.” Decker was blunt. “Who else from your school was involved?” “Look, I admit that I did it. That’s as far as I’m going. I’m not taking anyone else with me. That’s your job, not mine.” Decker could have pushed it. And maybe on down the road, he would push it. But his motto was to deal with issues one at a time. And now that Decker knew about Ernesto’s involvement, other things would fall into place. “I’m sure that whoever adjudicates the case will demand that you get some kind of rudimentary counseling.” “I need more than that.” “I agree.” Ernesto jerked his head up, surprised by Decker’s honesty. Decker said, “You’ll have to talk to your parents—” “Oh, no, no, no, no, no! That’s not possible! As a matter of fact, I am forbidding you to say anything to them about this. I’ll admit to the vandalism. I think Dad understands where it came from because deep down, I think he knows about Grandpa’s past, too. But he hasn’t faced the truth yet. Maybe

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he never will. In any event, they don’t need to know the details. My fantasies . . .” “You’ll tell your therapist?” “I’d like to. If I can find one I can trust.” Yet he told Decker all his thoughts without much hesitation. Ernesto seemed to have picked up on the thoughts. “My parents have this elevated image of me. Why spoil it for them totally? So what if you think I’m an asshole—a spoiled rich kid flirting with neo-Nazism because I’m bored and a jerk. What do I have to lose? I’m telling you what you already think. I’m not that way, really. I mean, I’ve got my problems but I’m certainly not a Nazi freak. Just ask Jake.” At the mention of his stepson’s name, Decker felt his heart skip a beat. He didn’t answer. Ernesto said, “We used to go to the same parties. Everyone knew that Jake’s stepdad was a big-shot cop. We weren’t close, but we knew each other.” Meaning they probably toked together. Decker remained quiet. “Not that Jake talked about you.” Ernesto looked somewhere over Decker’s shoulder. “Actually, he didn’t talk about anything personal. He had this way of talking to you without ever talking about himself. Like he was really interested in what was going on in your life. It made him a girl magnet—that and the fact that he looks like he does. Me? I always felt he was hiding something. Kind of like being a cop, I guess. I haven’t seen him around in a long time. How’s he doing?” “Let’s keep the conversation on you, Ernesto. What do you want me to present to the D.A.?” “How about if . . . I, like, give you a statement? And we’ll play around with it until we’re both satisfied.” “How about if you give me what you want me to present to the D.A.?” “You can’t help me?”

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“No. That’s called putting words into your mouth.” “All right. I’ll figure it out on my own. What do I do?” Decker reached into his briefcase and took out a piece of paper and a pencil. “You can start by writing.”

∂

8

His orders were to pick up Hannah after school at threethirty on the dot. This was not subject to debate, this was something he had to do because Rina was still busy cleaning up the shul. She refused to leave the sanctuary until it had been restored to pristine condition. No matter that Decker was in the middle of a pressing investigation of the crime that had caused it all, he’d just have to stop and do this parental duty. He understood his wife’s agitation. The thought of the synagogue in a state of obscene disarray was something she— the daughter of camp survivors—couldn’t handle. Cleaning was a way of not only negating what had taken place, but of doing something. Action as opposed to sitting around and being victimized. The techs had taken the better part of the afternoon to do their thing, so not only was the synagogue messy from vandals, but it was covered with print dust. The hate-filled leaflets and horrible pictures had been bagged and carted away for evidence. And though it might take a while to put all the pieces together, Decker was sure that it would work out. Now it was just a matter of retracing the kid’s steps, finding out whom he had associated with. This was a good case for Wanda Bontemps to sink her teeth into. As a newly arrived detective, she’d get a chance to show her mettle. And if she needed mentors, she couldn’t ask for better ones than Webster and Martinez. 64

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Decker pulled the unmarked next to the schoolyard. Which is what it was: a schoolyard, because it certainly wasn’t a playground. Not much more than a six-car parking lot sided by two basketball hoops. Twenty minutes, twice a day, the little kids were let out to ride tricycles, hit a tetherball around a pole, and run around. He got out of the car and stared at the asphalt. “Where are the swings and slides?” Decker had asked his wife. “Where’s the money? You find money, you’ll find swings and slides.” Waiting among the group of gabbing mothers, he once again felt like a wart on a beauty queen. One of them attempted a smile. Decker tried to smile back, but from the look on the woman’s face, he had probably retorted with a sneer. She gave him the back of her head and went back to talking with the other moms. Rina wouldn’t have approved of his reserve, but she’d never tell him. She knew his heart was in the right place—as were his hands. He had revamped the bathroom of the shul practically single-handed. Although they had thanked him heartily, he had known what they’d been thinking. The goyim . . . they’re good with their hands—as if he couldn’t be smart and coordinated at the same time. Everything in their small Orthodox Jewish community was operated on spit and prayer. The primary school had originally been a thirty-year-old medical building. A step away from being demolished, then someone had stepped in at the last moment with a down payment. The architect—the brother of a member of the shul—had managed to join all the suites under a common ceiling. The classrooms weren’t much bigger than closets, but it was home. At least one of the docs had had the courtesy to leave a skeleton behind for the science lab—their most up-to-date prop. There had been a todo about keeping the bones. Although the body was plastic, the head had once belonged to a genuine human being. In the

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end, the more modern outvoted the less modern, and Mr. Skeleton stayed. Hannah came running out of the gate. “Daddddeeeeee!” “Hannah Rosieeeeee!” Decker answered back, picking the seven-year-old up in his arms. “How was school?” “Great! How many bad guys did you catch today?” “A zillion billion.” “Yes!” Hannah’s feet kicked the air. She squirmed her way down until she was standing on her own power. “Where’s Eema?” “She’s busy.” “Is she at the shul?” Decker looked at her. “Uh, yeah, she is.” He bent down and looked his daughter in the eye. “What do you know about the shul?” “The teachers told us that a bad man made it messy.” Her brow was knitted in sorrow and fear. “Someone who doesn’t like the Jewish people. Is he going to hurt us, Daddy? Like that bad man who shot the kids at the center?” “No, honey. No one is going to get hurt. It’s all under control.” “Did you catch the bad man, Daddy?” “Sort of.” “I’m scared. Why is Eema there?” “To clean up the mess, that’s all.” “But no one got shot?” “No, honey, no one got shot.” What a world! “Let’s go, Hannah. Cartoons are waiting.” Hannah was quiet on the ride home. Decker tried conversation, but the little girl didn’t respond. Four blocks before home, she started talking, although it had nothing to do with the shul. It was a diatribe about how Moshe always took her pencils . . . just grabbed them from her hand without even asking! “That’s very rude,” Decker concurred. “He never even once asked,” she said in outrage. “And . . . he never said thank you.”

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“Very rude.” Decker parked the car in the driveway, helping his daughter out of the car. Then he took out Hannah’s backpack, which must have weighed twenty pounds. “How do you carry this?” “On my back.” “No. I mean it’s so heavy!” “Yes, it is,” Hannah agreed. “Sometimes I use the wheels. Can I have Mike and Ike for snack?” “No candy before dinner. How about milk and cookies?” “I don’t like cookies. How about milk and Mike and Ike?” Decker was too tired to argue. “Sure.” “Oh, Daddy!” Hannah crooned, hugging his waist with thin little arms. “You’re the best!” Translation: Between you and Eema, you’re the sucker. He parked her in front of the TV and used the quiet time to call his wife. “Just wanted to let you know that I got her.” “Thank you, Peter. Is everything okay?” “As long as you don’t mind her snacking on Mike and Ike.” “And if I did?” “I’d say, next time you pick her up.” Rina laughed over the phone. “I do appreciate you picking her up. I can’t stand the shul in this state.” “Are you almost done?” “Not even close. I don’t know who made the bigger mess—the vandals or the techs. Judith Marmelson and Reneé Boxstein are here. Reneé’s husband, Paul, is bringing over cans of paint. If you want to leave Hannah with her friend, Ariella Hackerman, you can join the party.” “This time I’m going to have to pass. I’m waiting for Yonkie to get home. I’d like him to baby-sit while I go back to work. I cut short what I was doing to pick Hannah up. But that’s okay. Actually, it was good to get out.” “How’s the investigation going?” “Promising. I can’t tell you any more.” “Promising is good. Promising is encouraging.” “It is indeed.”

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“A suspect—” “I can’t tell you any more.” “You’re no fun.” “Yeah, but you knew that when you married me.” Yonkie was home on time. Decker waited until he settled into his room before intruding on his life. A moment later he heard ear-blasting punk rock coming from Yonkie’s stereo. Decker had to bang on the wood to be heard over the din. The music volume took a nosedive, and then his stepson opened the door, looking at him with grave eyes. “Hey.” “Hey.” Decker tried out a smile. “Can I come in?” “Sure.” He stepped aside. “What’s up?” “Are you still mad at me?” “No, not at all. Sorry about today. I spoke without thinking.” “Did you get a lot of flak from your friends?” “It’s okay. I can handle myself.” Same words as Ernesto. It was the adolescent creed. Yonkie licked his lips. “What I don’t want is help, okay?” Neatly stated. Decker nodded. Yonkie was restless, clearly anxious for him to leave. “Anything else?” “I left work early to pick up Hannah,” Decker said. “I’ve left some things unfinished. Can you watch her for a couple of hours until Eema gets home?” “No problem.” Being agreeable, but there was anger behind it. “Are you all right, Jacob?” “Fine. Don’t worry about it.” A pause. “How’s Eema?” His voice took on concern. The kid loved his mother. That made two of them. “She’s scrubbing out the synagogue. It was pretty bad.” “Does she need help?” “You’re helping her by watching Hannah. You sure it’s okay?” “Positive. If she gets bored, I’ll take her out somewhere.”

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“Thanks.” Decker patted the boy’s shoulder, but there was no response. Like Jacob was made of stone. Or maybe he was just plain stoned. Jacob knew he was being sized up. He didn’t flinch from Decker’s scrutiny. “Uh . . . are you going out now?” “Yeah, give me a few minutes.” “Take your time. Call me when you need me.” He closed the door in Decker’s face. Jake’s life was a giant tumor of repressed anger. Decker tried not to take it personally, but the tension left him queasy. He went over to Hannah, who was steadily working her way through the box of candy. “How about a grilled cheese sandwich?” The girl’s eyes were glued on the TV—Scooby Doo. Man, that had longevity. The talking Great Dane had been around when Cindy was a little girl. “Hannah, did you hear me?” “Grilled cheese is okay.” She had heard him. Decker made up a grilled cheese sandwich, courtesy of an electronic sandwich maker that not only grilled but also molded the bread into an attractive shell shape. The aesthetics were lost on Hannah. She asked him to wrap it in a napkin so grease wouldn’t get all over her fingers. Meticulous at times, downright messy at other times. Kids never failed to mystify him. He said, “Hannah, I’m going back to work now. Yonkie’s here if you need anything.” “Where’s Eema?” she asked again. As if repeating the question would make her mother appear. “She’s at the shul.” “Okay.” “I’m going now.” “Okay.” “I love you.” He bent down and gave her a kiss. “Bye.” The little girl chewed off a piece of dripping cheese. “Bye.” The child was in TV narcolepsy. He patted her head, then

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heard Jacob summoning him. Actually, Jacob had called out, “Dad,” and that was good. When Jacob was angry, he called him Peter. “Are you still here?” Jacob yelled from his room. “I’m still here. What’s wrong?” “Can you c’mere for a sec?” Decker patted Hannah’s head again, then entered the inner sanctum of Jacob’s private space. Jacob always made his bed and kept his floor cleared of junk, but his desktop was covered with books, papers, candy wrappers, doodads, and other odd-shaped items that Decker couldn’t identify. Sammy’s bed and desk had been left in pristine condition, completely cleared of anything extraneous. Jacob refused to let his mess carry over to his absent brother’s side of the room. It was as if Jacob kept it clean in hopes that Sammy would materialize. “I think you’d better hear this.” Jacob turned on his answering machine. Hi, Jake. This is Ernesto Golding. Long time, huh? I don’t know if your stepdad told you what was flying. Probably not. At least, he shouldn’t be talking about me, but you never know. Anyway, don’t go postal, but you’ll probably hear it from someone. So I figured you might as well hear it from me . . . that I B-and-E’d your temple . . . messed up some stuff, spray-painted some swastikas, and threw around some Nazi shit on the floor. I was just fooling around, getting stoned one day, and one dare led to another and things kinda got outta hand. I dunno . . . it was nothing personal against Jews or anything. It was just something to do. I feel bad about it, but like I said, it was nothing personal. And I don’t know how much you and your stepdad talk, but you can tell him that if you talk about it. I’m sorta rambling, I know. Anyway, I haven’t seen you around in a while. I suspect I won’t see you around anymore. I’m going to hang up now.

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There was a click, then the droning buzz of the phone line. Jacob looked at his stepfather with curious eyes. “Did you arrest Ernesto Golding for vandalizing the shul?” “What he tells you is his business. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s a juvenile, and I don’t talk about juveniles.” “I’ll take that as a yes.” Jacob began to pace. “What a prick! What an absolute prick!” “Why do you think he called you?” Decker asked. “I don’t know. I barely knew him.” “Do you have any opinions about him?” Jacob gave out a breathy laugh. “I have four grandparents who are camp survivors—two of them with numbers. This guy vandalizes the shul and leaves Nazi crap and hate graffiti all over the place. But I’m not supposed to take it personally?” He bit his lip. “Yeah, I have opinions about him. I think he’s a butt wipe.” Decker restrained a smile. “He’s a rich kid,” Jacob said. “But he makes a big point of not flaunting it. He’s so concerned about not flaunting it that he flaunts it. Money meant nothing to him because he was always flush.” “Is he a smart guy?” “No dummy. He took the SAT twice. Did over 1400 the second time.” “Better than I could have done,” Decker said. “Of course, that’s not in your league—” “Stop it!” Jacob snapped. “Good Lord, take it easy, will you!” Decker barked back. “I’m trying to be nice.” Jacob looked away. “I’m sorry.” He touched his forehead. “I think I’ve inherited your tendencies toward headaches. Pretty good trick, considering we’re not genetically related.” Decker wanted to smile but couldn’t get it out. “I’m going now. If you need anything, call me, not Eema. She’s got her hands full.” “Yeah, sure.” Jacob kneaded his hands. “Look, if you want

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to ask me stuff, it’s okay. I don’t know much about Golding. I knew him from the parties. I haven’t seen him or any of them in six months. I hope you know that.” “Yonkie, I’m not looking over your shoulder.” The teen considered the words, but gave no indication that he agreed with them. “You miss Sammy?” Decker asked. “Yeah.” He licked his lips. “Yeah, I do. We E-mail each other almost every day, so in a way I talk to him as much as ever. But then things come up . . . things you don’t want to write about. It’s not the same.” He caught Decker’s eye. “Golding had a really nice girlfriend . . . Lisa Halloway. They were real tight, and then he broke up with her. She was upset about it. Totally baffled. At least, that’s what she told me. I felt bad for her. I almost asked her out. Not because I felt bad for her, but because I liked her. She was smart enough and really good-looking.” “So why didn’t you ask her out?” “What’s the point?” “I’m sure she would have gone out with you, Jacob,” Decker said. “Besides the brains, you got your mother’s baby blues.” “No, I didn’t mean that. I know she would have gone out with me. But it wouldn’t have lasted, so why make Eema upset? Eventually, I would have been too Jewish for her, and she would have been too goyish for me.” He shrugged with resignation. “You know, it’s not the rabbis and all the mantras they feed us at school that keeps me Orthodox. It’s idiots like Ernesto Golding. It makes me realize how alienated I am from the vast majority of this country. I can’t be a typical American teenager, starting with the fact that I’ve never eaten a cheeseburger. So maybe the rabbis did their job on some level.” “Do you like being Jewish?” Jacob turned hostile. “What kind of question is that? Do you like being Jewish?” “Most of the time, yes. Can you stop biting my head off?”

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“Sorry.” Jacob tapped his toe. “I’m okay with being Jewish. Better with it than I was six months ago. Now that the pressure’s off, and I can choose a secular college without feeling guilty, I feel a lot better about it.” “That’s good.” Decker leaned down and kissed Jacob’s head. Not that he had to lean down much. The kid was inching his way to six feet. “I’ve got a mound of paperwork that’s weighing down my desk.” “Go jam,” Jacob said. “Don’t worry about anything. Hannah will be fine.” “And you?” “I’m fine.” A pause. “A bunch of us are thinking of going to Magic Mountain Saturday night. I’m driving, but the guys are chipping in for the gas. I have enough for admission, but that’ll bust me. Do you have any odd jobs I can do for a couple of bucks?” “I suppose baby-sitting counts for something.” Decker handed him a twenty. “That should tide you over for a while.” “This is very generous.” A big smile . . . a genuine smile. “Thanks a lot. I’d better go study. I’m pulling high B’s in Gemora and would like to keep it that way.” “Absolutely.” Decker left the boy in peace. Money. It certainly wasn’t love, but sometimes it acted as a damn good imposter.

∂

9

Microwaving the pizza had left it tasteless with soggy crust to boot, but it was hot and filling and that was the best that Decker had hoped for at this point in time and space. He made it back to the station house by six-thirty with a belly full of grease and a head spinning with ideas. He knew that Ernesto Golding had not worked alone, but other culprits continued to be elusive entities. Decker would have liked to question Ernesto’s friends extensively—find out if they had information—but he knew that their parents wouldn’t allow contact. Without proof of involvement, Decker couldn’t muscle his way into their living rooms, and no other evidence was forthcoming because Ernesto insisted he was the sole perpetrator. Furthermore, since Ernesto had cooperated with the D.A., Melrose had high hopes of getting the charges knocked down to a malicious mischief misdemeanor—probation combined with community service, and a sealed record. Now that Ernesto had entered into the legal system, Decker’s part in the play had been relegated to the role of supporting cast. He didn’t have a lot of working time. If he didn’t come up with something new very soon, the entire case would slip from his grasp—officially closed, naming Ernesto Golding as the one and only vandal. Entering the detectives’ squad room, Decker was heart74

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ened to find Martinez and Webster at their desks. Wanda Bontemps was also finishing up her paperwork. She was hunched over her desk, her fingers playing with a cap of tightly knit curls. She wore black pants and a blue turtleneck. A black blazer was draped across the back of her chair. He flagged her down, along with Martinez and Webster, and the quartet convened in Decker’s office. Webster said, “Was Golding arraigned yet?” “An hour ago,” Decker answered. “No contest. He’s back home—own recognizance. Court date will be in about six weeks.” “Was he expelled from school?” Wanda asked. “That I don’t know,” Decker said. “I have this gut feeling that there’ve been some quiet negotiations behind the scene. You know how it is with institutions and money.” “The way of the world,” Webster said. “Nothing you can’t buy with money. Even money.” Decker said, “I don’t know what the headmaster is planning to do. In a perfect world, Golding should be expelled.” “In a perfect world, he should be in jail,” Wanda said. “This is very true. But given the fact that Melrose pushed through a rush job, it’s unlikely.” Decker felt glum, as if he somehow had failed Rina. “What’d you find out about the Preservers of Ethnic Whatever.” “It’s run by a guy named Darrell Holt, who is a mixture of lots of races,” Martinez said. “So I can’t figure out how he reconciles his own genetic variety with his ethnic purity crap. Anyway, he’s wrangled endorsements for his cause from some token minorities—one Filipino, one Hispanic, one African-American, one Asian, one Jew, and for sake of completion, one Anglo.” “What kind of endorsements?” Decker asked. “You can see for yourself, sir.” Webster handed him the flyers. “It’s all the same crud. Y’all can’t pin them down just by reading the articles. They play the separate but equal over and over and over.” Decker thumbed through the pages, scanning the para-

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graphs. “Here’s one that recommends an English-only policy.” “Yeah, that’s the one by the Marine.” “Hank Tarpin.” Decker scanned the printed material. “Superficially, there’s lots here that my wife would agree with. She would kill her sons if they married outside the religion.” “She isn’t the only one,” Wanda said. “I’d like my daughter to marry a good African-American man. Life is hard enough. At least in your own community, you can go around without getting stares and snickers. I talk from experience. About three months ago she had a Hispanic boyfriend.” She looked at Martinez. “People gave them looks.” “What happened?” Martinez said. “They broke up, but not because of the race . . . although I’m sure that didn’t help. He was a cop and she’s a cop and that wasn’t good.” “One of my kids married an Anglo,” Martinez said. “The other married a nice kid whose family was originally from Cuba. I’m from Mexico, and that’s another ball of wax. I can’t say I feel more comfortable with one son-in-law over the other. But that’s not the case with my parents, who don’t speak English all that well. There’s a language barrier. Which is why, personally, I’m big on an English-only policy in school. If you don’t speak and write the language of the country, you’re second class. No way my kids and grandkids are going to be second-class citizens.” “I agree with you, Bert,” Webster said, “but I reckon that you and the Marine are coming at it from different angles.” “That’s true, but it’s irrelevant.” Decker put down the papers. “But the only pertinent question now is, do we have anything to link Holt to the vandalized synagogue?” “Nope,” Martinez said. “But we talked to Holt before you arrested Golding. Maybe if we went back and mentioned Golding—” “And then maybe Golding’s lawyer would be all over our asses for giving out the name of a minor,” Decker interrupted. “Pulling the Ernesto card is out. If the Preservers of

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Ethnic ‘Racists’ is involved, we’ve got to get them without asking about Golding.” “How about harboring a fugitive?” Bontemps said. “Tell the loo what you told me about Ricky Moke.” “Who’s Ricky Moke?” Decker asked. Webster explained. “Supposedly Moke has been implicated in blowing up university animal laboratories. Supposedly Holt knows Moke. Supposedly Moke has dropped by their office. Supposedly Moke is an ardent racist.” “That’s an awful lot of supposedly,” Decker said. “Does this bad guy have a sheet?” “Nothing I could find,” Martinez said. “But I’ve only checked locally.” “If he’s implicated with bombs, the FBI would have information on him. Make a couple of calls tomorrow.” Decker sat back. “What about Darrell Holt? Does he have a sheet?” Webster shook his head. “Any information on him?” Decker asked. “The Preservers have a Web site,” Webster said. “But that’s all fluff.” “Find out what you can about him.” Decker scanned through the leaflets. “Are these the only papers you found? I’m wondering if Golding ever wrote anything for them.” “I’ll check it out tomorrow.” Decker thought about what Golding had told him, about his German grandfather and his dubious past. “While you’re looking up people in the computer, find out what you can about Jill and Carter Golding. I want to know everything I can about Ernesto, and it doesn’t hurt to start with the parents. Since they’re well known, it should be easy to find information about them. Also do a search with Golding and Holt and/or Golding and Ricky Moke as a common subject and see if the computer throws out any association.” Webster said, “The Preservers also have a girl working there. She looks about twelve.” “Name?” “Erin Kershan.”

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“Look her up.” Wanda said, “Should we put a watch on them, Lieutenant?” Decker considered the idea. “Are they local?” “Yes, they are,” Martinez told him. “Matter of fact, they live in the same building although different apartments. I’ll do it.” “I’ll do it, Bert,” Webster volunteered. “I got the two A.M. feeding anyway.” He looked at Decker. “Could I leave at about one?” “Sounds fine, Tom. You can put in for overtime.” “I can use the money, sir. Thank you.” Decker started writing down a schedule. “While you’re doing stakeout, I’ll drop by the Goldings and run Holt, Moke, and the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity by Ernesto. The boy isn’t going to admit to anything, but a good nuance is worth a thousand words.” The Goldings weren’t home, leaving Decker to wonder if they were hiding out somewhere. Just as likely, they were out to dinner. It was only a little past eight. Decker called Jacob and was apprehensive when no one picked up the phone. He tried Jacob’s car phone. The boy answered after two rings. “Yo.” “Are you two all right?” “Oh, hi, Dad. We went out for ice cream.” In the background, he heard Hannah scream, “Hi, Daddy!” “Hi, Hannah Rosie.” To Jacob, Decker said, “Is she in the backseat?” “Backseat with her seat belt on,” Jacob replied. “We’re on our way home.” “I was thinking about stopping by the shul to see Eema.” “That’s fine. Don’t worry about us. I can put Hannah to bed.” “Could you do me another favor?” “What?” “Before you put her to bed, can you two come down and

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bring me some junk clothes and my sneakers from home in case I want to help paint later tonight.” “No problem.” “Or maybe I should just go home, so Hannah won’t be subjected to—” But the line had already gone dead. He thought about calling Jacob back. He didn’t want Hannah reading all that hatefilled graffiti or seeing those dreadful pictures. Then again, Rina had been there for a while: the shul was probably somewhat sanitized by now. He arrived at the shul by seven and parked on the street because the tiny lot was full. A few broken windows had been boarded up, but light shone through the translucent curtains covering the intact glass doors. When he went in, he entered a construction site. Tarps and drop cloths had been laid down everywhere. More than a dozen people were working, brushes and rollers in hand. The walls had been primed, and open paint cans were everywhere. Rina was wearing overalls and a big red bandana over her head. Her face was dotted with Navaho white. She gave him an air kiss. “How’s it going?” Decker asked. “Baruch Hashem!” She was smiling and it was genuine. “Let me introduce you to some of our volunteers that you don’t know.” She walked over to two African-American women. One was tall and skinny, the other was short and fat. Mutt and Jeff. “This is Letitia and this is Bernadette. They’re friends of Wanda Bontemps from her church. As soon as she called them, they came right down to help.” She patted Decker’s shoulder with a paint-splattered hand. “This is my husband, Peter.” “Your husband.” It was the one named Bernadette. She had a smooth, round face and a stern look. She rocked from side to side. She was as tall as she was wide. “The police lieutenant.” It sounded as if she was holding his title against him; in light of the past allegations of his department, that could very well be the case. He held out his hand to her and she took it.

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Decker said, “Nice of you to help out.” “It was nice of Wanda to call them down,” Rina said. “Our church has an outreach program to help,” Bernadette said. “No one should be able to get away with defaming a house of God.” “I agree,” Decker said. “We need to start something like that in our community.” Rina turned to her new friends. “It’s not that we’re so provincial, although that’s part of it. It’s just that we’ve been so busy trying to make this congregation work. We barely have enough time and money to get our own services in order. But that’s going to change. We have to get more involved.” “This was an eye-opener to me,” Letitia said. Her face was long and she had a wide, horsey smile. “I always thought the Jews had the big synagogues.” “Some do,” Rina said. “We sure don’t. We’re lucky to pay the rent.” “Yeah, I guess that’s my own prejudice talking,” Letitia said. “I’d better stop yakking and get back to painting.” She smiled again. “Go with my strengths.” “How about some more coffee?” Rina asked. “I need more coffee.” Decker was happy to see Rina so charged up and filled with action. It helped mitigate the pain of why she was there in the first place. He said, “The way you’re flitting around, do you think you really need more caffeine?” “I don’t flit, I move in a purposeful manner,” Rina explained. Bernadette said, “She just appears to be flitting because she’s so graceful.” “Uh-huh,” Decker said. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” Rina yelled out, “Moishe, we could use some fresh coffee.” Moishe Miller—a big bear of a man—was standing in front of several folding tables piled high with shredded paper and abused books. At the moment, the bearded dentist was

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painstakingly piecing together torn bits from prayer books. “Reg or decaf?” The women looked about the room, then at each other. “Full strength,” Rina ordered. To Decker, she said, “Are you going to help out? We took down all the bookshelves. We need someone to paint them and put them back up.” “Yes, I’m going to help out. Jacob’s bringing over some junk clothes. I have a little more work to do, and then I’m all yours.” “Good to have someone who knows what he’s doing. House painting is a lot harder than it looks. It’s not just slopping paint over the walls.” “So you’ve discovered.” “It actually takes some practice.” “Does this mean you appreciate me more?” “I’ve always admired your manual skills. You just don’t work fast enough.” “But I do a good job. And the cost is cheap. You get what you pay for.” Rina nodded, then smiled at the women. But the expression was a taut one. Bernadette caught the tension. “Well, nice meeting you . . . Lieutenant.” “Peter is fine,” Decker said. “Peter then.” Again, Bernadette shook his hand, then nodded to Letitia. The two of them went back to their artwork. Rina used the moment to take Peter aside. She said, “Yonkie called me—” “I can’t talk about it,” Decker said. “The party is a minor.” “The party is a kid named Ernesto Golding,” Rina whispered. “You didn’t tell me, Yonkie did.” “Do you know this kid?” Decker asked Rina. “Never heard of him until Yonkie told me. There must be someone else involved. This isn’t the work of just one person.” Decker shrugged.

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“C’mon. Yes or no? Is there someone else?” “No comment.” “Now you’re sounding like a politician.” “If you’re trying to get me angry, I’ve had worse insults.” Rina grew impatient. “Peter, this is your shul, too.” “I’m painfully aware of that, Rina.” Then he said, “Please tell me that you haven’t mentioned Golding’s name to anyone else.” “Do I look like an idiot?” Now she was glaring at him. He said, “Don’t we have enough on our minds without fighting?” “This isn’t a fight,” Rina announced. “It isn’t?” “No. It isn’t. This is . . . both of us glaring at each other because we’re both under a lot of stress.” “I’m glaring at you?” Decker asked. “Yes, you’re glaring at me.” “You’re glaring at me!” “I know,” Rina said. “That’s why I said we were glaring at each other!” Decker paused, then started laughing. It broke the strain, allowing Rina to laugh with him. She reached out and took his hand and squeezed it. “I’d hug you except I’d get paint all over your suit.” “Hug me anyway.” Decker took her into his arms. They hugged—a long and romantic one. And she did get paint on his suit. He didn’t care. That’s why God invented dry cleaning.

∂10 It was past eight and the Goldings still hadn’t made it home. Decker would try them in the morning. Still, he wasn’t ready to call it a working day. Six months ago, Ernesto Golding had a girlfriend named Lisa Halloway. Golding had mentioned her, and so had Yonkie. His stepson had stated that she had been devastated by the breakup. Decker wondered if she had picked up any telltale signs of Ernesto’s antisocial behavior before the actual vandalism. The problem was getting past the parents. But that turned out to be the easy part: the parents weren’t home. At least she didn’t slam the door in his face. Under the illumination of a porch lamp, he noticed the winking of metal—multiple studs in her ears and a small stone in the side of her nose. Who knew what was in her belly button? Decker realized he shouldn’t judge by externals—if Yonkie had liked her, she must be a girl of some substance— but he was a middle-aged guy with old-guy prejudices. Trying to be objective, if he looked beyond the holes, he saw a pretty, dark-eyed girl with a clear complexion, an oval face, and dimples in the cheeks. Lots of long curls framed her face. She had her shoulders hunched over as if she was cold, and her arms were folded across her chest. She was unhappy and not afraid to express it. “I don’t know anything about the vandalism.” Her voice 83

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was raspy and low. “But even if I did know anything about the vandalism, I wouldn’t rat on Ernesto.” “All I want to do is talk for a few minutes,” Decker said. “Why should I let you in? You could be a rapist!” Decker smoothed his ginger mustache, aware of Lisa as an angry, young girl wearing a clingy, white tank top and jeans and no underclothes. He could see her nipples even in the poor light. Being alone with her—in private—was not a good idea. He said, “So we’ll talk out here.” “For all the neighbors to see?” “Yeah.” Decker smiled. “That’s the point. You’ll feel more comfortable that way.” “You can come in,” Lisa sneered. “I don’t seriously believe you’re a rapist.” “Thank you, but I’m fine out here.” Decker kept his face flat. “Can I talk to you on a conceptual level for a moment, Lisa? Let’s say we are given competing attributes—loyalty and justice. Both are admirable traits, agreed?” “I don’t see the point of all this!” She rubbed her arms. “Also, I’m cold.” “I’ll wait while you get a sweater.” “Never mind!” She was thoroughly sullen, but Decker continued anyway. “If the party in question is accused of doing something criminal, but there is no definitive guilt or innocence, maybe the party deserves the benefit of the doubt, ergo loyalty. But if you know for sure that he did it—because he himself has admitted it—doesn’t his criminal act abnegate his right to expect loyalty, and isn’t loyalty moot because he already admitted the act?” She swished her curls. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Why be loyal when you know he did it?” “Lieutenant Lazarus, it’s all moot. I don’t know anything about the vandalism. Can I go now?” Lieutenant Lazarus—using Yonkie’s surname. “It’s Lieu-

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tenant Decker,” he corrected. “And it’s a free country. You can leave anytime you want.” But she didn’t leave. Decker said, “You went with Ernesto for a while, didn’t you?” “You know I did. Otherwise, why would you talk to me? What’s the point?” “Any of his friends twang your antenna?” “You mean did he hang out with Brown Shirts?” She rolled her eyes. “And if he did, do you think he would have told me about it? I’m Jewish.” She gave a snort. “Not the right kind of Jewish for you.” Decker’s eyes bored into hers. “What did you say?” The intensity in his voice threw her off-balance. She blushed, then pressed her lips together and turned away, the implicit message being she blew it with her mouth. The other implicit message was that it probably hadn’t been the first time. “Who have you been talking to, Lisa?” Decker pressed. He knew damn well whom she’d been talking to. Now Decker had the advantage. She knew she had gotten Jacob in trouble. She’d have to call him and explain. But first she’d have to deal with Decker. If she remained snotty, she would add to Jacob’s woes. Now she was scared, didn’t make eye contact. “Can I go now?” Decker was relentless. “Have you been talking to my son?” “Stepson—” “I stand corrected. Where do you know him from?” “Just around—” “Where?” “I met him at a party. What’s the big deal? Jesus! Now I know why—” Again she stopped herself. “Go on!” Lisa rubbed her hands together. “Look! I met Jake at a

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party. Ernesto was there. Maybe Jake mentioned Ernesto or me to you in passing.” “Maybe he didn’t.” “Well, then, okay. Maybe he didn’t. I’m just saying that parents don’t need an excuse to rag on their children. Even my parents . . . who are pretty cool . . . they still snoop. All parents snoop. Jake told me you snooped. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. But let me tell you something about your son—” “Stepson.” “He feels brainwashed by your stifling way of life. He struggles with it. But in the end you must have succeeded because he hasn’t answered my phone calls for the last four months. Congratulations.” So she had made a play for Jake, and it had failed. So not only was it his fault that Jake was conflicted, but it was also his fault that she didn’t succeed in getting him. “You know what, Lisa? I’m going to do you a big favor. I’m going to forget what you just said and how you just insulted two thousand years of my stepson’s heritage. Let’s go back to talking about Ernesto—” “It’s my heritage, too, you know,” she defended herself. “Then if it is, you should be even more offended by what your ex-boyfriend did. I’m going to ask you straight out. Did Ernesto have any friends that made you nervous?” She paused for a long time. So many emotions walked past on her face—defiance, shame, insecurity, embarrassment, anger, hate—the whole gamut. Finally, she settled on resignation. “I hope I’m not sounding spiteful. I don’t want to appear like the scorned woman.” “Go on.” She sighed. “There’s a kid in our class—Doug Ranger. He has an older sister—Ruby. She’s around twenty-two or -three . . . graduated from Berkeley with a degree in computer science. She’s smart . . . sexy . . . not to me, but to the boys. She’s full of ideas . . . more like full of shit!” Wet eyes. “I’ve seen her car at Ernesto’s house a couple of times.”

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“Maybe it’s Doug’s car and he’s visiting Ernesto.” “It’s not him, it’s her.” “I guess parents aren’t the only people who snoop?” She wilted, her voice soft and plaintive. “Please, Lieutenant.” “So you’ve seen Ruby Ranger go into Ernesto’s house? Yes or no?” “Yes.” Totally defeated now. “Several times.” “What’s she like?” A long sigh. “Politicized.” “What kind of ideas does she have?” “Libertarian stuff. Government should stop being everyone’s baby-sitter. And it certainly doesn’t have any right to be a censor when it’s so corrupt itself. She’s really big on a free Internet. That’s her raison d’être at the moment—to maintain an uncensored Internet. You’re twelve years old and wanna talk about porn in the chat room with convicted sex offenders, that’s your perogative. Fine with her. You wanna talk about incest or NAMBLA, fine. You wanna talk about scoring drugs, fine. You wanna talk about neo-Nazis and Hitler as heroes or buy Nazi stuff over the Internet, that’s fine, too. She said that . . . those exact words.” Decker nodded. “She also said—right to my face while people were listening in—she also said that I would have been perfect concentration-camp fodder because I have typical Jewish looks.” Decker winced. “That’s awful. Not that you look Jewish, but the Nazi fodder part. That’s absolutely disgusting.” “It creeped me out.” “I can certainly understand that.” Immediately, Decker was thinking about how this woman might be stoking Ernesto’s sadistic sexual fantasies. Her prodding would be especially potent if Ernesto felt that he was from Nazi heritage. “What’d you say to her?” “Nothing. I was too shocked to respond. And, of course, that’s exactly what she wanted. To get attention by being out-

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rageous.” Her eyes were focused somewhere on her bare toes. “Jake wasn’t there. I told him about it afterward. He told me his grandparents were in concentration camps.” Decker nodded. “But they’re not your parents?” “My parents are American,” Decker said. “So are mine. And my father isn’t even Jewish. I was very offended by her statement. Then there’s this side of me . . . I was embarrassed by looking so Jewish, because Jewish girls don’t have a reputation for being hotties. That’s why I got the nose pierce. You probably think that’s awful, right?” He did think it was awful. Awful and an awful shame. But he tried to keep his face neutral. “Feelings aren’t awful.” She wasn’t buying. “Not true. Self-destructive feelings are very awful.” Decker softened his tone. “Do you know where Ruby Ranger lives?” Lisa nodded. “With her parents. Are you going to go talk to her?” “Definitely,” Decker said. “But it didn’t come from you, all right?” “She’ll think it came from Jake. He hated her. Every time she walked in the room, he’d leave. She once confronted him . . . something about him living an outdated life. That was a mistake! Wow, he got real scar—” She suddenly shut down. Jake got real scary, she had wanted to say. Decker would bring it up with him, a task he dreaded. The father part of him just didn’t have the energy to deal with another crisis. But the cop part kept pushing him on. He folded his notebook. “Thank you. You’ve been helpful.” “Maybe I’ve been helpful to you,” she said. “But I certainly have not been helpful to Jake or to Ruby.” He was minutes away from the shul. But his head was still spinning from what Lisa Halloway had just told him. He decided to make a quick pit stop at home. Be a concerned father

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and check up on his children. Besides, the longer car ride to his house would give him a few more minutes of thinking time. How to approach Ruby Ranger. At twenty-two, she was not a minor, but he imagined that her parents still exercised monetary control over her. If he could get them on his side, maybe that would give him an in with Ruby. Still, if the young woman were so strongly opinionated with such outrageous ideas, it indicated that she wasn’t dominated by her parents. The age, early to mid twenties, was unpredictable. It was getting late. The best thing was to wait until tomorrow. Maybe he’d have some other clever idea as to how to approach her. Maybe if she enjoyed baiting people, baiting a cop would be a big kick for her. He’d play dumb. If she hated Jacob, it would be even more of a kick to mess up his cop father. Which brought him back to his stepson. After fifteen years of having a no-fuss, no-hassle kid, he was getting paid back in spades. Jacob was moody, sullen, and sarcastic. But scary? The kid never failed to surprise him. He opened his front door, then went into the kitchen. Jacob looked up from the kitchen table. He was in his pajama bottoms, eating a sandwich, and reading Beowulf, yellow highlight marker in his hand. “Hi. What are you doing home? I thought you were going to the shul to help out?” “I decided to come home first . . . see if you need anything.” “I’m fine. Hannah’s asleep.” “Any problems?” “Nah, she’s a great kid.” “Yes, she is.” “You look tired,” Jacob said. “Like you just had a very bad conversation with a hysterical seventeen-year-old girl.” Decker sat down at the table. “I’m loath to get you involved. But I need help. As a cop, the more information the better.” He stared at Jacob’s food. “What are you eating?” “Tuna. There’s more in the fridge. I’ll make you dinner.”

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“I’ll do it.” “Sit.” Jacob got up. “Kibud Av. Honoring your dad gives you brownie points upstairs. I could use extra.” He fixed Decker a tuna on rye, complete with lettuce and tomato. Decker ritually washed his hands, then said the blessing over the breaking of bread. With two bites, half the sandwich was gone. “You are hungry.” “I’m always hungry.” Decker patted his stomach. Still firm but a bit wider. “Can we talk about Lisa?” “If you want.” “Actually, I’m more interested in a woman named Ruby Ranger. Lisa told me you knew her, also that you disliked her.” “That is a gross understatement. Ruby Ranger is psycho!” “Lisa said that Ruby tried to bait you once. You took offense and got pretty aggressive.” “What really happened was I told her if she ever got in my face again, I’d blast her face to smithereens.” Decker didn’t answer, too stunned to talk. Jacob said, “I not only threatened to kill her, I told her how I’d do it. Then I told her how I’d cover it up. Then I told her I knew all about homicide investigations and how to trip them up because I was your son, and I’d seen you conduct enough of them to know the pitfalls.” He looked at his lap. “Actually, I think she believed me.” Decker bit his lip, trying to figure out how to respond. He couldn’t get any words out. “She never talked to me again,” Jacob said. “Course, I never saw her again. I stopped going to the parties. So I guess I’ll never know what she really thought.” “Did people hear you threaten her?” “Yeah, we attracted quite a crowd. For a while, I was worried that someone was going to report me to the authorities— the real authorities, not you. Which would have been the correct thing to do. But no one did. All of them . . . the convictions of a turnip.”

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Silence. Jacob said, “Being arrested would have been consistent with my self-image. I was in the nadir period of my life. I was smoking weed and taking pills and screwing around and screwing up. I was out of control. Thank God, you got to me first.” He looked up. “That’s a compliment.” “Thank you.” Decker stared at him, as if looking at a stranger. “You didn’t tell me you were taking pills.” He waved Decker off. “What else didn’t you tell me?” Jacob threw his head back. “You’re a good guy, Dad. You try to be understanding. But even good guys have their limits.” He faced his stepfather. “I’m scaring the hell out of you, aren’t I?” “Yes, you are.” “I hate everything and everyone,” Jacob said. “I’m furious all the time. But I’m the problem, not the world. I’m trying to channel it all into constructive endeavors. Probably sounds like a crock of crud to you, but it’s true.” Decker was quiet. Jacob looked away. “I really am trying. For Eema, especially, because she deserves better. I haven’t touched anything chemical beyond an aspirin in six months. I’m doing well in school. I’m still working the suicide hot line once a week. I feed the homeless once a month. I am trying! But it’s hard!” Decker put his hand on his son’s shoulder. He leaned over and kissed his forehead. “What can I do for you, Jacob?” He shook his head. “I guess you can just keep doing what you’re doing. Like not freaking when I tell you these things.” “It’s hard,” Decker said. “Inside, I’m freaking pretty badly.” The teen pushed his plate away and closed the book. “You’ve seen a lot of psychos in your day, right?” “Right.” “Do I fit the profile?” Decker didn’t dare contemplate the thought. “No.”

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Jacob smiled with watery eyes. “You’re just being nice.” “You have a conscience,” Decker said. “Psychos don’t. But that doesn’t mean that you couldn’t do damage if you blew.” “I know that.” “Were you just spouting off at Ruby Ranger or did you really mean it?” “At the time, I think I really meant it. She’s a bad person. She defends people like Hitler and Stalin and Pol Pot. When I threatened her, she played it real cool. In truth, I think she liked it. I know she liked it. She got excited—aroused. Her nipples got hard.” “That could have been fear.” “It was a sexual thing, Dad. Believe me, I know. These people . . . they are so rich, so privileged. Nothing is novel to them, so they’re always looking for kicks. When drugs don’t do it anymore, they move on to other things. Ruby Ranger thinks mass murderers and serial killers are misunderstood geniuses. Do I think she’s behind the vandalism after what Lisa told me—that she and Ernesto are playing the mating game? Absolutely! I wouldn’t be surprised if Ruby did it just to get to me, that she was waiting for me to come after her with a gun. She’s probably all wet and horny about it—” “Jacob, please!” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He covered his face. “I’m such a pain in the butt.” “You’re not a pain . . . yeah, you are a pain. You’re very worrisome. I’m stymied. I don’t know what to do.” “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid, I promise you.” “Are you being open with Dr. Gruen, Jake?” “Bit by bit. Like I am with you. I tell him partial truths until I get the nerve to tell him the whole truth. He can tell what I’m doing, but lets me go at my own pace. He’s much better than the first one. I didn’t like her at all.” “Did you tell him about your threatening remarks to Ruby Ranger?”

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“Yeah. We’ve been working on that.” “Okay.” Decker chose his words carefully. “Would you mind if I called him? I could use some guidance on what to do for you.” “You’re doing fine, Dad. I probably talk to you as much as I talk to him.” No, I am not doing fine! Mildly, Decker said, “So you’d prefer that I don’t call him?” “Let me talk to him first, okay?” “Fair enough. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” “About Ruby Ranger or about me?” “At the moment, I’m more interested in you than in Ruby Ranger.” “What specifically? Drugs? Yeah, I took pills, too. Mostly downers when pot wasn’t enough. I liked being zonked out. It took the edge off the anger.” “What else, Yonkie?” “That’s it.” Silence. “No, really. That’s it.” He showed Decker his forearms. “See? I’m clean. I’m very angry, but I’m not chemically altered. You’re seeing the unadulterated Yonkel.” Decker tried out a smile. He thought he was partially successful. “What about sex?” “What about it?” “Are you sexually active? I’d like to be sure that you’re protecting yourself.” “Very much so.” Jacob smiled. “I’m not doing anything.” Decker’s laugh was real. “Okay.” “I made this deal with myself, that I’d wait with girls until I go away next year to Johns Hopkins. I have to work to keep the grades up, and girls are a distraction. Mostly, I’ll be older, the girls will be older. It ain’t easy, but I can wait.” “That’s very smart.” Decker stalled. Somehow he got the words out. “Actually, when I asked you if you’d like to tell me something, I was thinking about criminal activity, Jacob.” Jacob turned red and looked away.

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“Am I way off base?” Decker asked. Jacob continued to stare off. “I shoplifted.” “B-and-Es?” “No.” He looked at Decker. “No.” Decker was about to say, “Okay, I believe you,” but he couldn’t find his voice. Jacob said, “I shoplifted. Mostly booze, but I also stole about a dozen CDs over about a three-month period.” A pause. “Sixteen CDs. Don’t ask me how I did it with all those metal detectors. There are ways. I’m doing kapparah for it.” “What kind of atonement?” Decker asked, using the English word. “I never opened the CDs. They were still in their wrappers.” A beat. “Two months ago Dr. Gruen called the store manager. He explained the situation without mentioning names. Then he returned the CDs for me, no questions asked. As far as the stolen booze goes, I screwed up my nerve and did that myself. I used to hit this mom-and-pop liquor store. The owner—Mr. Kim—he’s being decent about the whole thing. We reached an agreement—a price. I’m working it off—manual labor stuff. Stocking shelves, sweeping, cleaning . . . watching kids for theft. Now, that is ironic, Alanis Morissette. I do it on Shabbos because it’s the only day I have off. Eema thinks I’m with friends, but I’m not. You can check it out if you want.” “Where is this place?” “About four miles from the house. I walk there after lunch. Yossie picks me up after dark. I used to see some of the old crowd there. Now they stay clear of me and of Mr. Kim. I may not have scared Ruby Ranger, but I think I scared lots of them.” Decker rubbed his head. “I’ve given you a headache.” “I’m just glad you told me all this after the fact.” Jacob said, “I’m doing better, Dad. It’s hard, but I’ll be all right.”

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“Yonkie . . .” Decker cleared his throat. “Am I wrong in assuming that the bastard who molested you did more than you’ve admitted?” Again the teen turned red. “I told you everything that I remembered. But there may be stuff that . . . that I blocked out. I was only seven, so . . . you know.” Decker felt sick to his stomach. What did that motherfucker do? Calmly, he said, “Are you talking about it with Dr. Gruen?” “Bit by bit. When it comes back to me.” Jacob flashed him a quick smile. “You want to talk about Ruby Ranger?” Decker was happy to change the subject. Did that indicate a weakness on his part as a parent not to probe deeper? Or was he rationalizing it by telling himself that it was best left to the professional? Decker was only human. There was only so much he could absorb at one time. “What can you tell me about her?” “Objectively, she’s smart—a computer person. I bet she’s an amateur hacker. She’s sexy enough to get plenty of guys if you’re into that severe Goth look. I could see her talking Ernesto into vandalizing the shul. She’d get off on that. But she’d never get her own hands dirty. That wouldn’t be fun for her. Her thing is manipulation, getting you to act out her pathology.” He grinned. “I sound pretty shrinky, don’t I?” “You’ve learned the lingo.” “When in Rome . . .” He looked at Decker. “If you talk to her, tell her to go to hell for me.” “She’ll be interviewed but not by me.” “Ah!” Jacob smiled. “Conflict of interest.” “Exactly.” “I’m sorry to be such a burden to you. Don’t worry. I’m out of your hair in a few months. Surely, you can hang with that.” “Jacob, you’re not in my hair.” “Sure, Dad.” He gave him a sour smile. “Actually, I’m looking forward to Johns Hopkins and getting out on my

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own. And I’m not going to shoot anyone. Although if I did pop Ruby Ranger, I’d be doing the world a service.” “That’s not funny, Jacob.” “I didn’t mean it to be.”

∂11 Installing and painting bookshelves gave Decker much needed downtime, using his body instead of his mind. By two in the morning, the chemical cleaning fumes had become overwhelming, so the shul gang broke for the night. Rina was out as soon as she hit the pillow, but Decker remained fitful, dreaming in dribs and drabs about rebellious boys, his own stepson included. He awoke with a start at fivethirty—it was still dark—and drowned his lethargy with three cups of espresso. At six, he took his prayer shawl and his phylacteries and rushed over to the synagogue to join the men in morning services—an anomaly because usually their small house of worship couldn’t round up a quorum. But the events of yesterday motivated the community to try a little harder. Right before the services started, half of Yonkie’s school— including Yonkie—came in to join them. Some smart kid even had the grace to bring in Danishes and juice as a reward for participation. It was downright homespun and everyone seemed friendlier, more social and a lot more grateful—praying with sincerity . . . making it count. By eight—after demolishing the snacks—the men started leaving to begin their working day. Rina, along with several other women, came in just as the men were filing out. They were holding pails, scrub brushes, scouring pads, and lots of Scotch tape to piece 97

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together torn bits of the holy books. Decker helped them unload the cleaning material. “I’ve never seen the place so spotless,” he remarked to his wife. “Almost like it never happened,” Rina answered. “What’s with that kid? Why on earth would he do such a terrible thing? I know you can’t answer me. I’m just wondering out loud.” “Darling, I’m just as confused as you.” Rina regarded her husband. “Poor Peter. You look tired.” “I’m fine.” Decker smiled to prove the point. “How come you look so good? It’s not fair.” “It’s called foundation to hide the dark circles.” “Ah.” “Also, you’re not wearing your glasses.” “I don’t need glasses!” Decker insisted. “Only with medicine bottles. Let’s not rush things.” Rina grinned. “Did I tell you I love you this morning?” “No, you didn’t.” She did. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Then she handed him a paper bag. “I packed you lunch. Please remember to eat it.” “That’s never been my problem . . . not eating.” She pinched his ribs. “Yeah, you’re right.” “Below the belt, kid.” “Stop talking that way.” Rina smiled. “We’re in a shul.” Decker laughed and hugged her. She felt tense and tight. He said, “Don’t overdo it with all the cleaning, Rina. You’re punishing muscles that you’re not used to using.” She broke away and rubbed her shoulder. “I’m aware of that.” “I’m going to remember that ‘below the belt’ comment,” Decker said. “Especially tonight.” “I sure hope so.” Decker laughed again, then gave her a final wave and returned to his car. Before he started the engine, he tried the Goldings’ home phone number. When no one picked up, he

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left another message. He had almost made it to the precinct’s parking lot when impulse overtook reason. He did a safe but illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, backtracking until he hit the Goldings’ neighborhood—a ritzy area containing blocks of spacious homes on acre lots. The development had its own tennis courts, swimming pools, saunas, Jacuzzis, workout gymnasiums, and recreation rooms as well as its own private patrol. As Decker groped around for the specific address, a white-and-blue rent-a-cop slowed his cruiser to check him out. Decker flashed his badge. The private cop nodded, then parked in the middle of the street and got out. He showed Decker the route to the Golding abode. Ernesto lived in a house that was an amorphous blob, resembling a mound of melting chocolate ice cream. It was constructed out of adobe and probably would have looked great in Santa Fe, but since it sat in a lane of traditional Tudor, colonial, and Mediterranean houses, the place looked unfinished. More than unfinished, it looked like a project that someone forgot to start. The front landscaping was an assemblage of rocks and stones, sitting in beds of sand, and drought-resistant plants, mostly varieties of cacti, but there were also ice plants for ground cover and other flowering mint-colored foliage. A couple of stunted pines framed an old, carved door—the front entrance. Decker knocked but didn’t expect anything. To his surprise, Carter Golding answered with Jill peeking over his shoulder. Even more surprising, they acted as if they wanted to see him. As a matter of fact, we were just about to call you. He was invited inside. The house was sumptuous and airy, utilizing an open floor plan. Furniture and screens were arranged to define rooms with different purposes. The staircase to the upper levels was also free-form and made of brown adobe. The mud-colored walls were textured and lumpy, holding tiny windows that let in large amounts of light. Lots of muted colors, probably because the sofas and chairs were covered with faded and worn

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upholstery. Nothing was formal or structured, as if every piece of furniture, every knickknack, every painting and wall hanging had been someone’s castoffs. Not that the interior looked junky, more like designer funky. Jill caught him staring. “Everything here has been recycled. All the upholstery is either the original coverings or we re-covered it with discarded material. The glass windows, for instance, are all recycled.” “All the architectural features came from demolition projects,” Carter stated. “It’s a point of pride with us. Even the wood used for framing up the house was recycled from other estates.” “You’ve certainly held a consistent stance,” Decker said. “We do our share,” Jill stated. “Probably a fraction of the cost, too,” Decker added. “I’m about to redo my kitchen. This is giving me ideas.” Jill lit up. “If you want, I’d be happy to show you around our plant. We get old cabinets all the time. Beautiful cabinets, Detective, made of solid wood. Not the current processed plywood.” It sounded very tempting. But not only was it unethical, Decker could just picture how Rina would react, knowing that the cabinets came from the family of a boy who had tattooed the synagogue walls with Hitler should have killed more of you. It had taken Decker a while to convince her to ride in his revamped Porsche. Carter was offering his business card. “The number on the back is my private work number. Feel free to use it.” Decker took the card to (a) have the number and (b) be polite. “Please sit down,” Jill said. “Anywhere is fine.” Decker decided on a rose-on-the-vine-patterned sofa. It was very comfortable. Carter took up an overstuffed chair and looked around the house as if observing it for the first time. “My wife has a designer’s eye.” Carter’s smile was open—

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a slash of solid white among his gray and brown facial hair. “She knows how to put things together. It’s an art.” The man was acting all too jocular. Thin and short, he was nearly swallowed up by the chair’s ballooned pillows. “Can I get you anything to drink?” “No, I’m fine, Mr. Golding.” “Call us Jill and Carter,” Jill said. Her elfin face had been freshly scrubbed, leaving her skin clear and shiny. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She looked less stressed and years younger. Both of them wore denim work shirts and jeans. Decker felt stiff in a suit. Jill said, “It is so fortuitous that you dropped by. It’s so much easier to talk face-to-face.” “I’d be happy to talk.” But Decker’s mind was on Ricky Moke and Darrell Holt: if they had anything to do with Ernesto and the vandalism. “But if it’s okay with you, I’d first like to have a few words with Ernesto.” “He’s not here,” Carter said. “He’s with some relatives. All the hullabaloo has left him zapped. More than that, he needs time and solitude to think about the magnitude of his actions.” “Maybe I can stop by . . . where he is right now.” Decker smiled. “It would help me out a lot to ask him a few questions.” Jill sighed. “I’m so sorry, Detective, but his lawyer will not permit you to see him without his counsel. But if you’d like to leave a message, we’ll relay it.” “I really wanted to see him in person.” Decker sensed he was working with someone cooperative. “Is there a way you can arrange a quick visit? Maybe you can take me over? I don’t mind if you stay while I ask him a couple—” “No, that won’t work,” Carter broke in. “Not without the lawyer. I hope you understand.” Decker nodded. “I have no objections if Mr. Melrose is there.” “Everett is on a tight schedule,” Jill stated. “I’m afraid yes-

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terday took up most of his time. I’ll run it by him, though. Maybe he’ll have a spare moment.” “Would you?” Decker asked. “It would be my pleasure,” Jill said. But Decker knew she wouldn’t do it. “What about Karl?” “What about him?” Jill responded. “Perhaps I can talk to him?” “Whatever for?” Carter broke in. “No use dragging him into the mess. We don’t believe in guilt by association, sir.” “Of course.” Decker was getting nowhere. He stood up. “Thanks for your time—” “Please stay for a moment.” Carter waited a beat, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. “We have a couple of favors to ask of you.” “Me?” “Please sit,” Jill requested. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” “No, I’m fine.” Jill was still waiting for him to park his butt, so Decker sat back down. Jill followed suit, then beamed at him. “We have some very good news. We’ve found a terrific therapist for Ernesto. It took us all night, but we found the perfect people to deal with him.” Carter said, “The vandalism was inexcusable—outrageous and disgusting. Even so, we feel we need to get to the root of the problem, don’t you agree?” Decker agreed. “His behavior definitely shows lack of parental understanding on our part.” Carter looked down and shook his head. “You try your best, but sometimes it isn’t enough. You need a professional.” “Do you have children?” Jill asked. Decker nodded. “Teenage children?” Carter said, “Jill, that’s a bit personal.” Obviously Ernesto hadn’t told his parents about Jacob.

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Decker said, “I have teenage children. I know they can be full of surprises.” “Exactly!” Jill exclaimed. “I’m glad you’re on our team!” “Your team?” “Yes, in a way.” Carter was excited now. “Because you can be of enormous help. Ernesto has asked that you talk to the therapist.” He smiled. “I don’t know what you said to our son, but obviously you have developed some kind of trust . . . a rapport if you will. I, for one, think that’s marvelous. I must tell you that this kind of . . . bonding is very unexpected . . . coming from a policeman.” He almost spit out the last word. “Not that we don’t support the local law, but given the recent history of the LAPD, the department leaves much to be desired—” “Cart, we don’t have to go into that right now,” Jill said tightly. “Detective, we’d like you to talk to Dr. Baldwin. We would really appreciate that.” Decker was stunned. “Mrs. Golding—” “Jill—” “I’m glad Ernesto’s getting professional help. But I’m not the one who should act as a go-between.” “Quite the contrary,” Carter protested. “I’m interested in your opinion. More important, Ernesto is interested in your opinion.” “Sir, to align myself with a suspect—even for societal good—is a conflict of interest. Furthermore, even if I approved of this man—” “Dr. Baldwin,” Jill interrupted. “If I liked him, ma’am, it would mean nothing. If I didn’t like him, it wouldn’t mean anything either. I couldn’t tell a good therapist from a bad one.” “All we want is your opinion,” Jill said. “I can’t do that.” “This is very disappointing.” Carter was pensive and

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grave. “Ernesto insisted to us that you had his interest at heart.” The manipulating little bastard. “I’d like if things worked out for everyone. But my job puts me in direct conflict with what you’re requesting.” Carter stroked his beard. “How about this? You agree to talk to Dr. Baldwin, and we’ll let you talk to Ernesto and ask him your . . . couple of questions.” They’re all manipulating bastards. Jill broke in. “Ernesto seems to trust you. He wants your opinion.” “I can’t give him an opinion. I don’t know anything about therapists and psychology.” “Surely you’ve seen therapists in your line of work,” Carter added. “You can’t work with oppressed and desperate people day in and day out without some kind of stress management.” Decker said, “The last therapist I talked to specialized in child psychology.” Jill said, “Really? What’s his name? I’m sure I know him.” “Jill, that is also a bit personal.” Decker said, “Why would you know him?” “Because I have an MFCC—Marriage and Family Counseling Certificate,” Jill explained. “I thought you knew that.” “No, I didn’t know that.” “I thought the police knew personal things about their suspects,” Carter said. “Pardon?” Decker said. “Last time I checked, you two weren’t suspects.” “Well, the family of a suspect. You can’t mean to say that we’re not under a cloud of suspicion—” “Cart, we can go into that later,” Jill interrupted. “What’s the doctor’s name? The child psychologist, I mean.” “Jill, wouldn’t that come under confidential information?” Carter asked. “Oh, yes, I suppose you’re right about that.” She nodded solemnly. “Sorry. You seemed so open with us that I seem to

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have forgotten my boundaries. Anyway, it is important to Ernesto that you speak with the therapist. Also, I’d be curious about your opinion. We all want to help Ernesto. I mean, you do want to help him, don’t you?” “If you help us out, Lieutenant, I’m sure we could work something out with Everett,” Carter said. “If he sees that you have Ernesto’s interest at heart, I don’t see how he could object to your speaking with our son.” Jill added, “In the end, it is our decision . . . whether or not we permit you to talk to Ernesto.” “So we’re swapping favors, is that it?” She blushed. “I’m just saying it is our decision. Surely you can see that Ernesto’s not a criminal.” Decker couldn’t see anything of the sort. But he had a half hour for lunch to spare. Rina had packed him a pastrami sandwich topped with mustard, mayo, sauerkraut, and spicy pickles. He figured he might as well get indigestion from something other than food.

∂12 Crimes more pressing than vandalism still plagued the city, leaving Decker to contemplate the wisdom of using valuable time to interview a couple of shrinks even if it meant a second chance with Ernesto. Still, he might as well try to understand someone else’s kid, because his own stepson left him abashed. Wanda had found quite a bit of material about Mervin Baldwin and his psychologist wife, Dee, on the Internet. They had been interviewed by the top news-lite magazines, and had had a cover article about them as a power couple in Psychology Now. There were also several “in-depth” profiles on them in in-house papers for local psychology organizations, both city and state. They had written about a dozen pieces for journals, most of them having to do with “Oppositional Behavior in Teenagers.” From reading the abstracts, Decker gleaned that Merv Baldwin’s specialty was working with troubled teens. There were essays devoted to his own unique treatment entitled Nature Therapy. It espoused being at one with the earth and land, using a combination of intense group programs out in the wild as well as individual therapy. The articles contained lots of psychological jargon that Decker didn’t understand, so he took notes. He wasn’t sure what it meant to be “at one with the land,” but to him it sounded a lot like camping. 106

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The Baldwins had several satellite offices, but the main digs were in Beverly Hills; the exact address was given to Decker by the Goldings before he left. Wanda had downloaded several pictures of the psychologists, but they hadn’t reproduced that well. From the photos, Merv was bald but dressed expensively. Dee was meticulously groomed, as stiff as her coiffed hairdo. He looked to be in his fifties, about ten years older than his wife. Traffic was thick over the hill because of freeway construction. Decker pulled off at Sunset and took it east, passing through Westwood, then the opulent residential area of Beverly Hills. The sinuous boulevard had been narrowed to two lanes because of roadwork, and was treacherous because of a sudden May downpour. The asphalt had a thin coating of slick mud, and that had brought the flow down to a crawl. Los Angeles was always unprepared for rain, and when it came, the locals drove like beginners, going either too fast or too slow. Turning left onto Roxbury Drive, he kept going until the street turned one-way, and of course, it was the wrong way. He maneuvered the unmarked through the maze of crazed shoppers and tourists until he was finally going the correct way on the street—except that the curb parking was taken up. To make matters worse, the public lots were full to capacity. By the time he had successfully landed a place to leave his vehicle, he was ten minutes late. It didn’t seem to matter, because the Baldwins kept him waiting. Decker didn’t expect that they’d do a kiss-up number, but he didn’t think they’d leave him cooling his heels. He was about to leave when the door opened, and a young African-American woman who introduced herself as Maryam Estes apologized for the delay. Lovely and curvy, she swayed as she ushered him into an “intake suite,” an interview room with very low ceilings. Decker didn’t have to duck to make it through, but he could touch the wood beams with a simple arm stretch. The space was large and done up à

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la Frank Lloyd Wright with lots of rich, wood built-ins, a conference table, and a gleaming ebony desk. The couches were constructed from slats of wood and covered with dozens of colored pillows. There were lush floral still lifes on the walls, and a stone fireplace was going full blast. Even though the surroundings had improved, Decker wasn’t about to wait anymore. He was about to vocalize his displeasure to the next person he saw, but then a woman came in, took his one hand in her two-handed grip, and introduced herself as Dee Baldwin. She looked even younger than she had in the photographs, in her late thirties. But she did have the same coiffed honey-dipped hair that wouldn’t survive too long in the wild. She had a round face with round brass-colored eyes and white teeth, her visage reminiscent of a lioness. She was quite petite except for shoulders that were very broad, made even bigger by the shoulder pads of her black pant-suit jacket. Her earlobes dripped gold, her neck as well. Her perfume was light and airy. “I am so sorry for the delay.” An apologetic smile. “A crisis came up . . . one even bigger than Ernesto Golding. This boy is in real trouble. Merv is still dealing with the parents, but he’ll be here soon. I know you’re a busy man, so perhaps we can start without him.” Dee sat down opposite him. “You were so kind to see us in the first place. Especially because I’m sure your personal feelings about Ernesto are less than laudatory.” Decker said, “Since we’re both on a tight schedule, maybe you can tell me why everyone was so anxious for us to meet.” “We deal with the police all the time, you know.” “I didn’t know.” “Perhaps I should tell you a bit about Merv and me. Our therapy is rather unorthodox in the conservative field of psychotherapy.” “I never thought of psychology as conservative.” “Oh, but it is!” Dee crossed her legs. Fabric rubbed against fabric, producing a swishing sound. “The field has utilized

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the same disciplines and methods over and over. It’s Freud and psychoanalysis, or Skinner, or some variation of behavior therapy, or Rogers and client-centered therapy, or some kind of humanism—gestalt therapy. Then there are the various therapies that deal with anxiety and fear—hypnosis or meditation or relaxation. But nothing in psych has yet addressed the fact that we—human beings—have had our core essence stripped by domestication and urbanization. We have moved from the primitive to the advanced. That’s good— don’t get me wrong—but there is still this residual part of us that longs to be harmonious with nature.” “That’s why there are national parks, I suppose.” “Camping, hunting, fishing . . .” She waved them away. “They have become hobbies instead of livelihoods. We have become such Urban Irvings that we have forgotten how we were fashioned. Not that we can turn back the clock—time steadily marches forward—but we must deal with this issue of our animalistic side. If we don’t harness it into constructive means, the destructive takes over. Hence boys like Ernesto Golding. This is a young man who needs his primitus guided to constructo rather than destrudo.” Decker smiled. “What does that translate into?” From the doorway, a voice boomed out, “He needs to be challenged physically, is what it translates into!” Decker turned around. Now, Merv Baldwin looked older than the computerized image—in his mid-fifties, which meant there was about a fifteen-year difference between Dee and him. Not that Decker was judging—he was twelve years older than Rina—but it was something he just noticed. Dee was as pretty as Merv was plain. The man was bald and paunchy with a round face vanquished by sag. He had short limbs and short fingers, and no doubt had short toes, since his shoes—croc loafers with tassels—looked to be a tiny size. He wondered how the man balanced on such wee soles. He was dressed in an expensive suit—hand-fashioned because of his size with working buttonholes. Good color sense—blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and a gold tie.

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“Merv Baldwin.” A hearty handshake. “I apologize for being late. Crisis! Not unexpected, not to me anyway, but it caught certain parties by surprise.” He began pacing. “So you’re the detective who extracted the confession from Ernesto. A physical confession as well as a confession of the soul. I must tell you that I did not approve of this meeting.” “Neither did I,” Decker said. He stopped pacing, regarded Decker, then continued to walk back and forth. Decker looked at the distaff Baldwin, trying to gauge her facial reaction to Merv’s perpetual motion. But her face was relaxed, as if this was totally natural. Merv called out, “Perhaps we both didn’t approve because we’re on opposite sides of the fence, eh?” “I don’t know about that,” Decker said. “We both want to know the truth.” “Yes, but you want to know a tangio/sensory truth. A truth you can see or hear or feel. I, on the other hand, want to know the truth up here.” He pointed to his temple. “To me, what happened at that synagogue, although terrible, is not as significant as what was happening in the boy’s mind. The why. With you, the why isn’t of chief importance. Oh sure, you’d like to have a motivation. It helps clinch a case. But the mere fact that it was done—that is your primary concern.” “That’s not entirely accurate,” Decker said. “Oh, no?” Merv shouted as he trod the carpet. “The law takes into account some extenuating circumstances, but not all of them. In the mind, there are always extenuating circumstances.” The man was irritating. Decker was irked. “Why am I here, Doctor?” Merv hopped about. “Ernesto requested that I present my therapy for your approval. Not that I care if you approve or not. I’m just trying to do an old friend a favor.” “You’re friends with the Goldings?” Decker asked. “We marched together.” He stopped to regard Decker’s face. “You must be of that same generation vintage.”

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“As a vet, I was on the opposite side, Doctor.” Decker smiled. “Seems to be a pattern.” Merv smiled. “Not as much as you think. I did my tour— not in action, so I suppose you think less of me. But I was not anti-army, only anti-Vietnam. I was a staff psychologist in Germany—the one called in to help the mental basket cases that the confrontation created. It was a very ugly war.” “Yes, it was.” Decker checked his watch. “It’s been nice talking politics, but I have other obligations awaiting.” “We know you must be very busy,” Dee stated. No sarcasm in her voice. “Thank you for taking time out for us and for Ernesto. Over the years, we have seen many cases of boyswill-be-boys. We deal in the extremes, helping young men bleed energy in constructive means. And they can’t contact the constructo within until they feel a sense of harmony with nature. That’s why we call our therapy Nature Therapy. We take our clients out of the city and back into the untamed. During the day, our clients are challenged with the physical: the construction of a shelter, the search for food, protection from animals, insects, and the forces of nature. We have Nature Masters who preside over these exercises. Our guides are professional survivalists. They are instructed to teach the client about the physical but offer no therapy. Even if a client wants to confide in them, they are instructed to tell the client to hold the question or statement until group or individual therapy times. Each of our boys gets individual as well as group therapy. Integrating the mind with the body is what puts our clients back into harmony.” Merv continued the speech. “We have had a tremendous success rate. It’s not perfect, but no therapy is a panacea, especially if the clients aren’t willing to change. In Ernesto’s case, we feel he is ripe for our self-awareness therapy. He is bright, physical, and troubled by what he did. Surely you must believe that the boy, given the right intervention, would prove to be a productive citizen and an asset to the community.”

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Decker said, “If you think you can turn him around, great.” “That would please you,” Merv asked. “You bet.” “It wouldn’t be cognitively dissonant with your preconceived notion of the boy?” Merv asked. “I’m sure you have assessed him as problematic.” “More like criminal,” Decker said. “But, hey, prove me wrong.” Dee smiled. “Oh, we will do that, Lieutenant. Have no doubt. We will do that.” “It sounds to me like a summer camp for troubled kids.” Decker sat back in his desk chair, regarding Martinez, Webster, and Bontemps. They looked like an updated and older version of the Mod Squad. “Ever look in the back of Sunset magazine or any other similar periodical? It’s filled with nature camps for troubled teens. I really don’t know what makes this one so different.” Martinez rubbed his tired face. It was close to five and his stomach was rumbling. “Maybe it’s different because the Baldwins appeal to a rich clientele.” “All those places appeal to rich clientele, Bert. Ever call up and ask the prices?” Wanda said, “Maybe they have a higher staff-kid ratio. Or maybe the docs are just real good with the therapy.” “Or maybe they’ve got a good racket going,” Decker said. “However, if it straightens the kid out, I’m all for it.” “But you have doubts,” Martinez said. “Me, too. Let me hear your reasons.” Decker made his hands into a teepee. “If the kids were redeemable, it might work. Frankly, it’s garbage in, garbage out. I think the survival camps just turn the psychos into better psychos. Because now they’ve learned enough survival skills to be great fugitives.” “Ditto,” Martinez stated. “You really think Ernesto is all that hopeless?” Webster

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said. “I’m not excusing the sucker—I think he deserves more than just CS—but his acting out is probably rebellion against radical parents. Y’all know how it is. Kids experiment and if they don’t succeed in really buggin’ their parents, they didn’t do it right.” “This is beyond the ordinary rebellion,” Decker said. “The kid left pictures that showed piles of dead Jews. It was totally repulsive!” “I know you were offended, but consider this, Loo.” Webster wasn’t ready to concede the point. “How do teens act out? Drugs? Sex? Weird dress and loud music? Given the Goldings’ background, I couldn’t see them being too worked up about any of those things. But racism or violence— swastikas and horrific photos—that would get them where it hurts.” He paused. “They were upset, correct?” “I think so.” “You think so?” Martinez said. “Put it this way. They were very glad to see their son get therapy. That was the important issue, not the degradation of a synagogue. Jill Carter is a therapist, and in the Baldwins, they think they’ve found a cure for Ernesto’s problems. Total bullshit. That boy knew what he was doing. In answer to your question, Tom, he could be redeemable, but it’s out of my hands now. The deal’s been cut, and I was part of it. The therapy and community service will satisfy a judge, and that’s that. If I want more, I’m going to have to do it on my own.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “Ernesto may have gotten the Nazi crap out of his system, but he didn’t vandalize the synagogue by himself. I’d sure like to find out who else was behind the vandalism. Ernesto won’t name names, but maybe we can uncover someone who will.” He turned to Webster. “I take it the stakeout was worthless?” “Not entirely. I heard some cool books on tape.” Tom shrugged. “I didn’t see either Holt or the girl go in or out of the place. I left at one-fifteen.” “We don’t have any suspects at the local level except the

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Preservers of Ethnic Integrity,” Wanda said. “But there are lots of fringe groups in the outer areas . . . in the mountains and canyons.” Martinez said, “Speaking of mountains and fugitives, remember Ricky Moke?” “The friend of Darrell Holt’s?” Decker asked. “Yeah, him. The FBI has a file on Ricky Moke. But not for bombing.” “What?” “Computer hacking. He’s a mystery. The Feds have almost nothing on him.” “What do they have?” “There was a guy who used the screen name Ricky Moke whom the feds caught hacking into Lunar Systems Inc. from a location near Frisco. When the feds went to check it out, the port belonged to a grocery store that had no awareness of the crime. Someone had wired the port to a condemned building. No one knows who this Moke guy really is.” “No picture?” “Nothing.” “So we don’t even know if Moke is a real person or not.” “Darrell Holt claims to know him,” Webster said. “I could ask him for a description.” “We could do that for the sake of completion. But it’s irrelevant if Moke isn’t tied to any hate crimes.” Martinez said, “Personally, I think Moke’s a dead end as far as the vandalism is concerned.” Decker said, “So forget about Moke. Concentrate on the hate groups we have. Lord knows there’s enough of them.” “If y’all want to take this hate thing to the next level, we need to go regional,” Webster said. “That could take a while. Is this a good use of our time, especially since Ernesto has admitted to doing the vandalism?” “Ordinarily, I’d say it would play very well with local politics. Showing that the police have zero tolerance for racism, especially after what happened with Buford Furrow at the

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Jewish Center. On a personal level, I want to take these bastards out. But . . .” Decker sighed. “But we can’t do much with Ernesto because he’s a minor and the deal’s gone down.” Martinez said, “Where does an upper-class kid like Ernesto get such graphic pictures? Off the Internet?” “Maybe,” Decker said. “So maybe someone should check out what’s available out there . . . on the Web sites.” “That’s a good idea,” Decker said. “I can do that in my spare time,” Webster said. “As long as we make sure that the powers know what’s going on. I don’t want the feds at my doorstep, demanding that I download my computer.” “I’ll clear it for you,” Decker said. “I’ll do it, too, if you want,” Wanda said. “I’ll clear you both,” Decker said. “Or better yet, you two should just go over the hill to the Tolerance Center. I’m sure they have everything you need.” He thought for a moment. “Rina knows some people who work there. I’ll have her make a few phone calls.” “Good,” Webster said. “So where are we now?” Decker said, “I’ve got one more lead—a possible girlfriend of Ernesto Golding. From what I’ve been told, she’s into some very scary stuff. But we’ve got a problem with her. She’s over twenty-one, so we can’t scare her parents into allowing us to interview her.” “Maybe we can scare her,” Wanda suggested. “This one doesn’t sound like she scares easily.” Decker shrugged. “But since we don’t have much else, we’ll give it the old college try.” He checked his notes, then wrote the vitals on a piece of paper. “Here you go.” Martinez took the paper. “Ruby Ranger?” “She sounds like a porn star,” Webster said. “Maybe she is,” Decker said. Webster brightened. “Want me to check out the adult tapes at the local Blockbuster?”

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“There are better ways to use your time, Tom,” Decker answered. “My wife has been preoccupied with our daughter for the last six weeks. If you can think of a better use for my time, I’m all ears.” “It’s just that his hand is getting tired,” Martinez said. “Do I have to hear this?” Wanda covered her ears. Decker smiled. “Do me a favor, Wanda. You drive. At the moment, you’re the least likely to get distracted by fantasies.”

∂13 The brass plate on the gate named it Hacienda del Ranger. The villa was several levels of pink plaster, green shutters, and red-tile roofs, with a round two-story turret that contained the front entrance. To get in, Webster rang a bell that connected to an intercom. Once buzzed in, he, Martinez, and Bontemps stepped through a shaded courtyard lushly filled with potted plants, the floor tiled with Mexican pavers. The centerpiece was a three-tiered, scallop-shell fountain that dribbled rather than spouted. The woman who answered the intercom was of average height and terminally thin, with a weathered face made even older by her big bleached-blond hair. Her hands were snaked with veins and knobs and sprouted long red nails. She was dressed in black knit, which gave her a spectral look. The three detectives showed her proper ID, but she didn’t bother to read any of the information. “What do you want?” “Mrs. Ranger?” Martinez asked. “Yes, what do you want?” Wanda said, “If you don’t mind, we’d like a word with your daughter, Ruby—” “She’s not in.” “Alice, stow the bullshit!” a female voice broke in. A moment later the thin woman was unceremoniously shoved out of the way. She teetered on black spiked heels. 117

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“What are you doing, Ma?” The voice came from a young woman who stood with her hands on her hips. She was tall and bony except for ample breasts. Her hair was black and poker-straight, clipped just below the earlobes, with bangs grazing the tops of her eyebrows. Her complexion was chalk white, red lipstick outlined her mouth, and green eyes peered from black-lined sockets. Her hands were long, but unlike Mom’s, her nails were short and ragged. She wore black leather pants and a midriff denim vest that barely contained her cleavage. Her navel was pierced, as were one eyebrow and her nose. “I’ve been expecting this, Alice. They know I’ve been with Ernesto. It’s guilt by association. Wrong, but what the fuck?” Alice said, “Do you have to use such crude language?” “Yes, I do—” “Why do you have to do it in front of me?” “Because it’s so much fun to see you squirm. But don’t sweat it, old cow. I’m leaving.” Mom marched off, tears in her eyes. Ruby flashed the cops some white teeth and a tongue pierce. “Ah, the unholy trinity. I must rate to send over three little coppers.” “Ruby Ranger?” Martinez asked. “Duh, yeah!” She knocked her temple. “Anyone home?” “May we come in?” Wanda asked. “Yes, you may come in.” Ruby swung the door open. “You can talk to me while I pack. Because when I’m done, I’m gone.” Abruptly, she turned and headed up the stairs. Wanda raised her eyebrows. “Oh, my, my!” “Whatever she is, porn star ain’t that bad of a guess,” Webster said. They started in after her, but then Alice suddenly reappeared. “Can I get any of you some coffee or tea?” “No thank you, Mrs. Ranger, we’re fine,” Webster said. Alice was filled with short, spasmodic movements, as if tension was delivered through her nervous system in discrete bundles. “You shouldn’t think badly of Ruby. She’s a free spirit because we’ve raised her that way. Maybe too much a

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free spirit, but I know she’ll settle down.” The woman smiled, but her eyes were still moist. “We were all free spirits and look at us now.” In Wanda’s mind, that wasn’t an endorsement. “We’d like to talk to your daughter before she leaves. So if you’ll excuse us.” “Of course. I’m just trying to explain . . .” She stopped. “To understand and explain . . .” They left her groping for words, still trying to explain. The door to Ruby’s room was open. She was literally throwing her things into an oversize black duffel. Most of the clothes were black, waving like funeral banners as they leapt from the drawer to the bag. Her room was prison-cell spare—a full-size bed with a blanket on top, and a dresser topped with a boom box. Nothing hung from the walls, and there was nothing on the floor other than the hardwood. No mirrors, no TV. Yet the woman was immaculately groomed. Wanda walked a few steps and peeked into the bathroom. It was filled with bottles and jars sitting on the rim of the bathtub. And it did have a mirror over the sink. “Where are you going?” Wanda asked in a disinterested tone. “None of your business.” Ruby didn’t bother to look at them when she talked. “Now that I said that, I’ll tell you. Probably back up to Northern Cal. But maybe not.” “Silicon Valley?” Webster said. “Depends what’s in it for me.” She stuffed a pair of Levi’s into a side pocket. Then she took out a very skimpy leather bustier and placed it over her midriff top. “What do you think?” No one answered. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking . . . no support for my boobs.” She cupped her breasts. “Thirty-six D. All flesh, no implants. Weep your heart out.” She tossed the bra over to Martinez. “Give it to your wife or your girlfriend.” She tossed him a pair of panties. “Think of me the next time you fuck.”

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Martinez tossed both articles back at her. “I’ll pass. Where were you yesterday morning?” “Masturbating in my bed.” “What time?” Martinez said evenly. “I dunno. Nine, ten . . . I didn’t bother looking at the clock.” “The act doesn’t take that long,” Wanda said. “What did you do afterward?” “I dunno. Showered, shaved my legs, took a dump . . . the usual. I wasn’t anywhere near the synagogue. Yes, I admire Hitler, but painting juvenile slogans on walls and leaving pictures of dead bodies is infantile.” She smoothed her polished hair with bitten fingernails. “I’m not a Nazi . . . fascism holds no interest for me. It’s the evil leaders that I find utterly fascinating. Those who start out in the extremities of society and somehow wangle their way to the top. It’s more of an indictment of the public than it is of them. Nothing can exist without public support.” She grinned at them. “Even cops . . . especially cops.” She tossed the leather bra to Wanda. “How about it, sister? Goes well with your complexion.” Wanda tossed it back. “I’m not your sister, and I prefer colors. I outgrew Goth a long time ago.” “Judging from the crow’s-feet, I’d say it was a long, long time ago,” Ruby answered. “Do you get what I’m saying here, folks? That totalitarianism can’t exist in a vacuum. I mean, look how fast the Berlin Wall fell. Seventy years of entrenched, hardened Communism brought down like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Did you and Ernesto ever talk about Hitler?” Webster asked. “About Hitler, Stalin, Ivan the Terrible, Louis the XVI, Marie Antoinette, Bluebeard, Jeffrey Dahmer, Gacy, Ed Gein, Lizzie Borden, Richard III . . . what else? So I have a fixation about the dark side. The country hasn’t retracted the First Amendment so far as I know.” Webster said, “You look like you’re in a hurry to leave.” “You’re a clever one for a hick.” She sat on the edge of her

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bed. “If you’re assuming that my rapid exit implies some kind of guilt, you are out of the ballpark, my cutie pie. Ernesto admitted that he vandalized the synagogue. If he had help, I don’t know about it. We didn’t talk much. We had a sex-shu-al relationship. He’s large and that was why I put up with him. I’m twenty-three and a genius on many levels, he’s seventeen—bright but no Einstein. Not that he doesn’t have promise, but he needs a few more years for his brain to gel. We fucked more than we talked.” “You just opened yourself up to statutory rape,” Webster said. “I fucking quake. But sure, if you want to arrest me for rape or putting ideas into his head, give it your best shot.” She stood and hefted the duffel. “Not too bad.” She disappeared, then came out of the bathroom holding an armful of hair and bath products, dumping them into the nylon bag. “You talk to your superior’s kid about me? Jacob Lazarus. Now that kid had some genuine gray matter. A certified cutie, but very disturbed. Man, he really hates me!” She grinned. “I’d keep an eye on him. Because isn’t it always the hotshot’s kid who’s the most fucked up?” She paused. “Although I can identify with his anger. Life is so stupid when you’re that smart. I think that’s why I’m so obsessed with those who make an impact, albeit an evil one.” She zipped up the duffel and lifted it again. “Man, this fucker is heavy! You want to help me?” “No, not at all,” Wanda said. She smiled. “Suit yourself. I’m outta here. Tell my mother that Dad’s still fucking his secretary, so she may as well have that piece of chocolate cake.” She winked and lifted the bag about two inches off the ground. “Bye now.” They followed her down the staircase. Alice was waiting at the bottom. “When will you be back?” “I dunno.” Ruby kissed her mother on the cheek. “Buck up, Ma. There’s always the pool man.” She dragged her bag across the hardwood floor and onto

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the porch outside. It left a scratch atop the planks. She towed the duffel through the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, then heaved it into an open trunk on a four-wheel-drive Jeep. She slammed the lid shut, hopped into the driver’s seat, and gunned the engine. Moments later, she was gone. Wanda took down the license plate, then said, “I wouldn’t fret too much, Mrs. Ranger. Kids always return when the money runs out.” Alice regarded Wanda, her eyes red and still brimming with water. “You-all don’t know the hell I’ve been through. You try to give up and let them go, but something inside of you keeps trying. One more conversation, one more attempt!” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “She was once a baby . . . goo-goo-ing and ga-ga-ing in her crib, just like any other baby. Her brother isn’t like that. I just don’t understand what happened!” Martinez rubbed his neck. “Kids are tough. But she isn’t a kid anymore. She’s an adult. You can take the yoke off your neck. She isn’t your responsibility anymore.” The woman shook her head. “No, sir, the yoke is there . . . always. Like that African tribe whose women have iron rings around their necks permanently. The rings stretch the neck. They stretch it and stretch it and stretch it. It is said that if the rings were removed, the stretched neck could no longer support the head, and the woman would die. That’s me, Detectives. The yoke is the only support I have left.” Before Jacob had left the synagogue in the morning, Decker managed to secure the boy’s permission to talk to Dr. Gruen. He knew he had caught his stepson in a weak moment, and felt bad about exploiting him, but Decker needed some guidance. He left a message with the doctor’s answering service, figuring that the psychologist would call him back later in the evening. To his surprise, Gruen was on the phone five minutes later. “You caught me right before my six o’clock patient.”

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“You caught me right before I left,” Decker said. “Thanks so much for calling me back.” “You’re welcome. What can I do you for, Lieutenant?” “Jake gave me permission to talk to you.” “I know. He called me.” “Oh, good.” Decker stalled. “I was wondering if you could help me out with some of his issues . . . without breaking confidentiality, of course.” “What in specific?” Again Decker paused. “He’s very angry . . . self-admitted.” “This is true. He is one pissed-off kid.” The psychologist’s voice was not only calm, but conversational. He could have been talking about a plumbing bill. “What’s he pissed off about?” Decker asked. “Pick a topic,” Gruen answered. “I think he’s worried that he’s a sociopath,” Decker told him. “He asked me if he fit the description of those I have arrested.” “What did you tell him?” “No, of course.” “And that’s how you feel?” “Of course.” But Decker hesitated a little too long. Gruen said, “His life would be much easier if he were sociopathic. Then he’d just do his thing, and with his intelligence and good looks, he’d probably be a top corporate raider. Instead, the kid is saddled with an overly developed conscience and a pathological sense of guilt. He’s ashamed by his recent behavior—the drug use that he has admitted to you—and is terrified that his mother is going to find out. I’ve suggested family therapy so he can admit certain things to her in a controlled environment and rid himself of some of the guilt. But he’s not ready for it yet. He has a big stake in protecting her. Does your wife have a clue as to what’s going on?” “Much more than he thinks she does.” A pause. “I don’t think she knows anything about the molestation. Jacob’s intimated to me that more went on than he had admitted.”

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“Uh-huh,” Gruen said. “Is it bad?” “That’s what we’re working on.” “You can’t say anything more?” “At this point, we’re trying to sort out fact from fantasy. Even he’s not sure. For instance, one of his recollections is his molester threatening that his mother would die if he told her what went on. That’s the one he admitted to you, correct?” “Yes.” “I think the threat might have been more like, ‘If you don’t let me do what I want to do, I’m going to kill your mother.’ ” “He said that?” “No. This is my interpretation. But put yourself in Jacob’s seven-year-old mind. This animal tries to rape and kill his mother. The kid’s got to be thinking that it was somehow his fault. If he had let this pederast do what he wanted to do to him, his mother would have been safe. Which is totally false. Now I can tell him, and you can tell him, and the whole world can tell him, that it isn’t his fault. That a monster is a monster is a monster. And intellectually, he’ll believe you. He’ll say ‘Of course, it wasn’t my fault.’ But getting rid of the entrenched guilt is a whole ’nother animal.” “How does he get rid of it?” “I’m not sure he can. So I’m telling him not to even bother to assess blame. Instead he should look at the outcome. Mom is fine. More than fine. She’s happily remarried and has kids she adores. Now maybe she isn’t fine. Maybe she’s miserable. But that’s not the point. If he perceives her as fine, that’s good enough.” “She is doing fine,” Decker said. “At least, she never hinted that she wasn’t fine. Maybe she isn’t fine. I’d think she’d be a lot finer if Jacob was happy.” “Ain’t that the mantra of all parents. Anyway, you want my opinion. Behaviorally, Jacob will excel in college. He’ll ace it. And he’ll find socially acceptable outlets for all his energy. Emotionally, it would be good if he continued seeing some-

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one when he’s in Baltimore. His problems aren’t going to be solved by the last commercial break. He’s aware of that, too.” “What should I be doing?” “He’s talking to you. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. I’ve got a patient in two minutes. I’ve got to go pull her chart.” “Can I call you again?” “How about if I call you if Jake and I think I should call you? That way you don’t have to keep asking Jacob’s permission, and he won’t feel you’re horning in too much.” Decker resigned himself to being kept in the dark. “That sounds acceptable. Thank you.” “You’re welcome. Bye.” In other words, no news would be good news. Decker’s take on it was no news meant less excess stomach acid.

∂14 The vandalism case stalled, but crime did not. With new homicides, rapes, assaults, burglaries, robberies, domestic disturbances, and car thefts, even Decker couldn’t think too much about a once defaced synagogue now freshly painted and restored to its former mediocre glory. The vandal or vandals did succeed in mobilizing community support for interfaith dialogues on hate crimes. Rina had thrown herself into the thick of it, organizing this panel and that panel. It was her way of dealing with the insult. Once in a while, she asked him about the progress in finding more culprits. When he made excuses, Rina didn’t push it. For months, things proceeded apace, Decker’s family mercifully going through a quiescent period. His daughter Cindy had completed her second year as a cop, and had done so without major incident. This year, all the bad guys against her were actually felons. Jacob had been officially accepted to a joint program with Johns Hopkins and a local yeshiva in Baltimore. He worked hard without complaint and kept most of his opinions to himself. Decker resisted the parental urge to pry. Instead, he concentrated his energies on Hannah, who truly wanted his attention. By school’s end, in June, Ernesto Golding had completed his ninety days of community service. From time to time, he had dropped in on Decker just to shoot the breeze, speaking 126

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at length about therapy and how he was finally getting it together. And how good community service had been for him: to get out and not be so spoiled and see what was happening in the real world. Because he sure as hell knew he didn’t live in the real world. And he was glad that Ruby was out of his life because although she was a good lay, she was very bad for him. She had filled his head with all sorts of weird ideas. And now he wasn’t even so sure about his grandfather being a Nazi, and maybe he had made it all up in his head because Ruby had messed with his brain. In three weeks, Ernesto was off to the Baldwins’ nature camp. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” Decker had found himself saying. “I guess.” “You’re satisfied with Dr. Baldwin?” “Actually, I think I talk more to you than to either one of the Baldwins. I think you should start billing my parents for your services.” Tempting, considering the Baldwins were making around three hundred an hour. He was making around three hundred a day: good money when he didn’t compare it to anything else. “I’d like to talk more, Ernesto, but unfortunately, I have a meeting in about ten minutes.” “I know you’ve got to go. Look, I’m graduating in two days. If you aren’t doing anything, maybe you could come to the ceremony. I wouldn’t mind.” “What day of the week is it on?” “Friday at six.” Saved by the bell. Decker said, “It’s the Sabbath—” “Oh, yeah. Right. Anyway, I’m off to Brown. Pretty good for a felon, huh? Thanks for saving my butt, by cutting me a deal and keeping it all quiet. Thanks for giving me another chance. I’m going to do better. You’ll see.” “Are you looking forward to the nature camp?” Decker asked the teen.

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“I don’t think I need it anymore, but it was part of the deal. What the hell? It’ll teach me good survival skills. The main instructor is a former Marine. Sounds like fun, huh?” “A riot,” Decker said. Ernesto rolled his eyes. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. How’s Jacob?” “Fine.” “He’s got one more year to go, right?” “Yes, but he’s going back east actually.” “Really? Where?” “He’s in a joint program with Johns Hopkins University and a local Jewish high school.” “That’s cool,” Ernesto said. “That’s real cool. Say hello to him for me. I know he doesn’t hang with my buds from Prep, but you know, that’s okay. Tell him I said hi.” “I will.” The young man’s smile turned into a grin. “I’ll write you from the wilderness. Send you a postcard by carrier pigeon.” Decker laughed. “Good luck!” After he had left, Decker realized that he almost liked the boy. And he did wish him well. Which was why he felt sickened to the core when he caught the call.

∂15 It was a short hop from residential real estate to woodlands, from homes and civilization to what once was the dominant terrain of the Southern California mountains. Hills abloom with early summer wildflowers—a palette of deep lilacs, sun-kissed yellows, and a spectrum of greens. Mervin Baldwin ran his back-to-nature camp a few miles into the region where the knolls segued into rocky peaks and the unruly vegetation was lush and thick through endless wilderness. The solidly built, teenage boys whom Baldwin claimed as his clients could walk back to the strip malls in just a few hours, and often they did. Eventually, they were found, reclaimed, and given even more duties to make up for their truancies. Mervin Baldwin found it exhilarating as well as redeeming that these boys could negotiate and navigate their ways from foreign territory back to home base. He would exhilarate no more. Mervin Baldwin, along with Ernesto Golding, was dead. The sun had just jumped over the horizon, but was still low enough to cause that blinding postdawn glare. It was a little past six in the morning, and Decker had already finished a thermos of coffee. Usually, he depended on a brisk workout on the treadmill to get the heart started, but today it was a chemical rush that kicked the system into action. He drove a Jeep Cherokee, once black, but now turned 129

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charcoal thanks to a layer of fine-grained dust. Driving up a gravel road until it dead-ended, he then switched into fourwheel drive and took the Jeep off-road up the stony incline. The SUV bounced and bumped, the motor straining as it neared the Baldwin campsite. Within moments, official vehicles and uniformed people came into view, their vehicles taking up the precious level ground. Decker maneuvered the Jeep about fifty yards to the left, where he found a relatively clear patch to park, but it left the wheels at a slant. He got out with great caution. Below him was a hundred feet of rock, not a sheer drop, but if he were to fall, he’d get pretty banged up from rolling downward. The actual stomping ground was a mesa, fronted by a panoramic view and surrounded by a moat of deep drops and gorges. Not a whole lot of room to square-dance, but it did allow the camp officials to do roll call with a sweep of the eye. Off to the left, two large canvas huts had been erected. The rest of the flattened ground was covered with sleeping bags. Eleven dazed teenagers—Decker had counted them—were seated on the ground, resting, staring, or playing cards using sunflower seeds as money. They were in various states of dress—from pajamas to jeans and an undershirt. None of the kids made eye contact as he walked by, but Decker could feel them watching his back with suspicious, hardened eyes. It took an act of will not to look over the shoulder. The wilderness was an unincorporated area, co-manned by Decker’s substation, the conservatory park rangers, and the sheriff’s department. Usually, homicides up in the hills were taken over by the sheriff’s department, but since Mervin Baldwin and Ernesto Golding were locals, someone had been smart enough to phone him up. Decker hoped that the call indicated interdepartmental cooperation instead of a machouniform pissing contest. He wanted the case and the other agencies would give it to him if he treated all involved with respect. He smiled first and then flashed his badge, approaching one of the park rangers. Her name was Landeau, and she was a big woman with thick wrists. Her hair was tied back in

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a ponytail, and sweat dotted a protruding forehead. It wasn’t that hot, so Decker concluded that the perspiration came from physical exertion. She said, “The crime scene’s the bigger of the two shelters.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “There’re about a dozen officers combing the area.” Decker stared at the view. “What are they looking for?” “Pardon?” He turned to face her. “What are the officers in the mountains looking for?” “Oh. The perpetrator, of course.” Which meant the area was already trampled upon. Decker said, “Do they know who the perpetrator is?” Landeau stuttered, “N-no . . . I mean I don’t know . . . maybe someone else does.” Decker didn’t say anything. He looked around, his gaze taking in the boys, then skipping over to a man dressed in battle fatigues, being questioned by two uniforms. In the background, he heard the strain of more vehicles making their way up the mountain. Decker pointed to the combat guy. “Who’s that?” “Corporal Hank Tarpin.” She consulted her notes. “Formerly from the USMC. He calls himself the Chief Nature Master—the camp coordinator in charge of the day-to-day activities. He found the bodies and identified them.” “As Golding and Merv Baldwin.” “Yes.” Decker nodded. “I’ll go talk to him.” “Yes, sir,” Landeau answered. She was clearly glad to get rid of him. Tarpin was over six feet and built with a broad chest and very big arms suggestive of an iron pumper. He had a remarkably small head for the thick frame. Or maybe it just looked smaller because his scalp was shaven clean. Deep, brown eyes, prominent nose, thick lips, and a big chin. He reminded Decker of the T-shirted genie on the household liquid cleaner, only without the earring.

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The officers looked up and Decker flashed his badge, making sure Tarpin took it in. The man’s face was emotionless. Not hostile or defiant, just a total blank. It could be shock; it could be a controlled effort not to give himself away. Decker introduced himself. “Lieutenant Decker.” Tarpin’s voice was muted. “Good you made it down so quickly. I know you had some prior dealings with Ernesto, because the kid told me.” A pause. “He liked you. I thought you should know that.” “Thanks for telling me.” Decker regarded the khaki-clad sheriffs. They were clearly below him in rank but didn’t like being usurped. From the stripes, Decker could tell that the smaller man was a sergeant. “I had prior experience with the deceased minor. That’s why I’m here.” Decker’s eyes fell upon the two domed huts, waterproof and colored neon orange. “That’s the crime scene?” “Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered. Tarpin said, “It’s unspeakable in there. Not that I haven’t seen bodies in Serbia and Rwanda, but . . . it’s been a while. And I knew them . . . shook the hell out of me.” That’s what his words said. But Tarpin’s face was still empty. “You identified them as Ernesto Golding and Mervin Baldwin?” Decker asked. “Yes, sir, it’s them.” Tarpin looked away, his nose wrinkling for a split second—as if he smelled something rotten. “When did you discover them?” “When I got up . . . around five in the morning.” “And you immediately went into the tents?” “The closest hut is where the provisions are kept. The farther shelter belongs to the Baldwins. I went to get breakfast going, and . . . something didn’t smell right. If you’ve ever been in combat and had a whiff of the stench, you just don’t forget it.” Decker took out his notepad. “What did you do?” “Lifted the flap to Dr. Baldwin’s tent.” He averted his gaze. “God help them now. . . . He’s the only one who can.”

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“And you knew right away that they were both dead.” “Yes, sir. No doubt about that.” “Look for a pulse?” “Of course . . . nothing.” “Were the bodies warm?” He waited a moment. “I don’t recall.” Decker thought a moment. “So Ernesto Golding was in Merv Baldwin’s hut.” “Yes, sir.” “Doing what?” Once again Tarpin wore an enigmatic expression. “Therapy. That’s where Dr. Baldwin does therapy with the boys.” “At five A.M.?” “I beg your pardon?” “You said you found them at five in the morning. They were already dead. Does Dr. Baldwin do therapy in the wee hours of the morning?” “He does therapy twenty-four hours a day, Lieutenant. That’s what makes him remarkable. I hope you’re not implying something.” “No, I’m just asking questions.” “Then you should start asking questions about the other Dr. Baldwin—Dee Baldwin. I can’t seem to reach her. She’s not answering her pager or the phone. I’m concerned.” “Can you give me the numbers? I’ll send over some officers to her residence.” “You bet.” Tarpin fished through his pockets. “Have a pencil?” Decker handed him his notepad and pen. “I hope this isn’t any kind of vendetta. They’ve worked with all kinds of unbalanced teenagers.” Tarpin scribbled down numbers. “This is her pager, this one’s the cell phone, this is the office, and the residence.” Decker reclaimed his pad and pen, then dialed from his cell phone—dead in the wilds. “I’ll have to use the mike in the SUV. This isn’t working in this range.” Two murdered, one missing.

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Decker said, “All the rest of the camp’s boys are accounted for, Corporal Tarpin?” “Yes.” Tarpin turned his head and spit on the ground. “Are you going to question them?” “I’d like to.” “It wasn’t one of them. None of them could pull this off and be so quiet about it. I didn’t hear a damn thing. Besides, these boys here are rank amateurs. The Baldwins don’t take the hardened juvenile cases in their camp. Too much risk.” “What did these boys do to bring them here?” “Petty stuff . . . or just acting out with Mama and Papa. They’re on the wrong track, but when push comes to shove, they’re basically spoiled, rich-kid pussies. They think they’re tough, but they wouldn’t last a week on the mean streets.” Tarpin’s bald head was sweating. “He deals with other kids, more disturbed kids. You might want to start looking there.” “I’ll start with these boys.” Decker walked toward the Jeep to make his calls. “Mainly because they’re here and so am I.” Tarpin dogged him. “They didn’t do it. They’re all like Ernesto. You think a kid like Ernesto could have done that?” He answered his own question. “Not a chance. None of them could do it. You’ll see when you talk to them.” Decker opened the door to the four-wheel drive. “I have every intention of doing that just as soon as I put in the call to find Dee Baldwin—the living before the dead, Corporal.” He didn’t need to go inside to know what had happened. The ground was inked with streaks of blood, oozing out from under the bottom of the waterproof dome. Several bloody partials of shoe prints formed a trail from the door flap to the edge of the drop. Decker chalked them and looked over the escarpment. No continuing trail down the mountainside as far as he could see, but that meant nothing. Someone would have to climb down there and check it out, because from the way it looked, it appeared that the shoe print went over the edge. Weird, but not impossible. Gingerly, he trod on the dusty ground below, watching

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where he stepped. He opened the door flap and lowered his head. Then, trying not to breathe too deeply, he peeked inside. The wind of death registered first. It stank of blood and guts, reeking like the back of a butcher shop. The stretched fabric walls had been bombarded with splatter marks; on the ground were puddles of crimson and brown plasma. Once there was a double bedroll, but now it was a blotter of bloodsoaked sheets. The two bodies lay on the ground, side by side, both doubled over. No arms hiding their faces: they didn’t even have enough time to assume protective positions. Ernesto had been bare-chested; Baldwin had on an undershirt. The rest of the clothes lay in a heap near the entrance to the tent. Decker closed his eyes in order to think. A tinge of nausea made pinpricks in his stomach, but he swallowed it down. If the victims’ state of dress implied that this meeting had been more than just therapy, it put a different cast on Dee Baldwin’s disappearance. Was she running from the bad guys or hiding from the cops? Or maybe she had just gone grocery shopping at seven in the morning. He opened his eyes. The scene did not improve. The faces were bluish white and streaked with blood. They had been shot repeatedly and, from the bullet holes that dotted the bodies, they’d been shot impulsively. No execution-style shooting, this was rage, giving full meaning to the word overkill. Exit holes from the shells had made Swiss cheese out of the tent walls. Judging by the sizes of the apertures, the weapon was probably a .32-caliber. The assailant must have had a silencer, because otherwise there would have been lots of noise. If the couple had been awake and had been seized with such firearm force, there would be no way for them to fight back. If they had been asleep, they wouldn’t have known what had hit them. The coroner would determine a range for the time of death. In this case, Decker’s knowledge as a detective would be just as accurate. The bodies were still warm. At this elevation,

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things cooled off at night. The murders appeared more recent than not. If Tarpin was innocent and to be believed, he hadn’t heard anything. Which meant it had happened in the deepest part of the sleep cycle—usually two hours before wake-up. If Tarpin said he woke around five, the murders probably took place sometime around or after three. From three to five . . . Where was Dee Baldwin? He closed the flap and gave himself a moment to catch his breath while scanning for details. In the last few minutes, Webster, Martinez, and Bontemps had surfaced. Martinez was writing in his notepad but stopped when he saw Decker. The trio walked over, Webster saying, “How bad is it?” “It’s awful.” Decker turned to Bontemps. Before he could talk, Webster broke in. “I called Wanda down because she was involved with Golding in the vandalism case. I thought if this was another hate crime, a bigger hate crime, she should be here.” “It’s a hate crime, but not a ‘hate’ crime,” Decker said. “But it’s good that Wanda’s here. We could use someone in Juvenile since the majority of our suspects are under eighteen.” They all regarded the stunned teenagers. Decker said, “Let’s divide the kids into two groups according to their ages. The ones over eighteen can be questioned. As far as the minors, we can’t do much without parental consent. Get their names and phone numbers and start contacting the parents. You can also ask them very casually if they heard or saw anything and judge their reaction. “But remember that we’re working with a different population here. They’re all going to look like they’re trying to hide something, because that’s their normal behavior. They’re fuckups. They’ve got years of experience masking guilt or shifting the blame. We’re looking for something out of the ordinary.”

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Webster said, “Y’all really think one of them did it and stuck around to be questioned?” Martinez said, “Maybe we have a real psycho in our midst.” Bontemps looked at the motley crew. “That very well could be.” “I’m going to see if I can get Tarpin’s permission to open up the kids’ knapsacks,” Decker said. “When the parents placed their kids in the program, they explicitly gave Tarpin and Baldwin permission to do random checks of their personal possessions for drugs and contraband.” “This is sounding familiar,” Webster said. “I realize that,” Decker answered. “Who’s Tarpin?” Martinez asked. “The dude in the camouflage,” Decker said. “He looks like he could do some damage. What’s his role in the camp?” Martinez asked. “Boot kicker?” “Chief Nature Master,” Decker said. “The activity coordinator. I think he does everything except the actual talking therapy.” “Why does the name Tarpin ring a bell?” Webster said. “You’re right,” Martinez stated. “But I can’t place it. What’s his gimmick? Is he a survival expert or something?” “Probably.” “That’s it!” Wanda looked up with triumphant glee on her face. “Remember the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? Darrell Holt and Erin Kershan?” “Yeah, yeah!” Webster said. “The flyers they were printin’ up!” “Tarpin’s name was on it!” Martinez said. “He was the English-only guy.” “This is sounding very familiar,” Wanda remarked. Decker raised his eyebrows. “The flyer should be in the original case file. I’ll look at them later.” Wanda said, “At the time we didn’t have anything to connect the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity to Golding and the

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temple vandalism. I don’t know if Tarpin and Golding knew each other before this tragedy, but it would be interesting to find out.” “Whatever happened to that other racist kid? The hacker.” Decker snapped his fingers. “Ricky Moke. Or whatever his name really is. Wasn’t he also a supposed survivalist?” “I think that’s how Darrell and Erin saw him,” Wanda said. “Graduate of Mervin Baldwin’s program?” Martinez asked. “Let’s check it out.” Decker paused. “In the immediate, I’d sure like to locate Baldwin’s wife. She’s not at her house or at the clinic, and that’s making me nervous. I gave the go-ahead for immediate entrance on the grounds of immediate danger to her welfare, but then we had to retreat from the premises. I’m trying to get a court-ordered search warrant, especially for Baldwin’s clinic. Tarpin suggested some kind of vendetta. Maybe something’ll pop up in his case files.” Martinez said, “Aren’t his case files confidential?” “Not if someone’s in imminent danger.” Decker paused. “A crazy patient coming back to get you. What’s the likelihood of that? Probably as likely as old criminals coming back to hunt us down.” “It happens,” Martinez said. “Not very often. Know what the most dangerous occupation for that kind of thing is? Law. People get real pissed at lawyers. Anyway, I don’t know for certain if Dee Baldwin is in imminent danger. As a matter of fact, she just might be the perp.” Decker described the scene inside the hut. “A wife finding her husband and a kid in that kind of pose, I could see her going into a rage.” “I dunno, Loo,” Martinez said. “You think the camp shrink would have a homosexual affair with a minor with all these kids and Tarpin and his wife hanging around?” Wanda said, “Maybe Dee paid him a surprise visit.” “At three in the morning?” “At three in the morning, it would really be a surprise visit,” Wanda said. “And that’s why she waited. She had sus-

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picions. Wives know that kind of thing. She wanted to catch him when he least expected it.” Decker said, “That could explain the premeditation aspect of this crime. The murderer had to have used a silencer. Otherwise, he or she or they would have woken up the entire camp. She comes up here with a gun and a purpose . . .” Decker thought a moment. “She would have had to use a vehicle to get up here. So somewhere among these umpteen tire tracks would be an impression that matches her vehicle. So let’s get a casting on every single tire print here and let’s say a . . . half-mile radius, assuming she might have parked a ways down so as not to create too much noise. Wanda, you chalk off every single tire track you see and have the techs do the plaster work.” She frowned. “That’s gonna take up a lot of time.” “Yes, it will,” Decker said. “You have a problem with that?” “Uh, no, sir, not at all.” “Good. Tom and Bert will help you after they’re done. Tom, you take the older kids—which’ll take time because the questioning will be more involved. Bert, you take the information on the minor kids and also handle Tarpin because you’ve been in the service. He claims to be a Marine . . . mentioned something about Serbia and Rwanda. To me, Tarpin looks like a mercenary. I’ll call Oliver to do a background check on him. I’ve got to call on Jill and Carter Golding before they hear the news from somewhere else. Of course, if anyone wants to switch places . . . ?” Silence. “Thought not.” Decker squinted into the hot sun, felt its fire spitting in his face. It was shaping up to be one hell of a day.

∂16 They had to have known something was really wrong, because if it had just been another minor run-in with the law, Decker wouldn’t have come in person. But there was no way for them to expect news as bad as this. And there was no palatable way for Decker to deliver it. Standing like a robot, witnessing all the horror, shock, and pain known only to other grieving parents—the screams, the sobs, the sudden clutching of the breast. The father trying to comfort the mother, the mother refusing all of it. Then came the immediate denial. You must be mistaken. Are you sure? You could have made a mistake. How can you be certain? You’re wrong! But Decker was not wrong. This part never got easier. He only got older. At first, they would hate him because he had told them the unspeakable. Then a week would pass . . . two weeks . . . a month. They would come to view him as the link, the one who would impart some logic into the madness, their conduit to the investigation, the one they could call, yell at, scream at, cry with. Eventually a relationship would grow—maybe a 140

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symbiotic one, maybe an antagonistic one—but some kind of relationship. Still standing at the doorway—because no one had invited him in yet—Decker spoke in short sentences. Even so, his words weren’t registering. Jill’s eyes had turned feral. She hissed when she spoke. “You didn’t know him all that well. You could have made a mistake.” Decker said, “Maybe we should all go inside.” They stared back at him: Jill with her red, pinched nose dripping clear snot all over her green sweats, and Carter, pale green in complexion and stymied by shock. He was dressed in a work shirt and jeans. Decker lowered his head, attempting to cross the threshold. Passively, they split ranks and let him enter. Carter immediately fell into a chair, battling a bad case of nausea, dropping his head between his knees. But it was Jill who made the sudden run for the bathroom. They could both hear her retching. Carter whispered, “How do you know? How are you certain?” “The camp’s coordinator—Corporal Tarpin—positively identified him.” “Oh, God!” Tears flowed down the man’s cheeks. “But just maybe he made a mistake?” Pleading, begging. It was pure pathos, heart wrenching. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Golding. I saw him as well.” More awful silence. The questions would come. Slowly at first, then they’d barrage him, getting angrier at each query. It was a pattern that Decker was all too familiar with. Carter said, “I’m grateful I was home.” Talking from a male perspective. He had been there to take care of his wife. Carter didn’t know what Decker knew, that she wouldn’t want his care and she wouldn’t want his protection. What she wanted was her son back, and since she couldn’t have that, he was of no use to her at this time.

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Carter looked up. “At least she didn’t hear it alone.” A pause. “You’re sure?” “I’m sure.” Carter pointed to a chair. Decker sat. “What . . .” That was all he could get out. “Perhaps we should wait for your wife. She’ll want to know, sir. She’ll have to know.” Carter didn’t argue. And eventually Jill did return, with mottled white skin and shaking hands. Carter said, “He was going to tell . . .” Silence. She bit her lip as tears rushed from her eyes. Then she nodded quickly. Short and simple. Decker said, “Right now, this is confidential. Dr. Baldwin was also murdered. They were found together in a double bedroll.” Jill looked up and covered her mouth as her eyes widened. “Oh my God!” Breathing hard. “Oh my dear God! Together?” Decker nodded. “So where was Mervin?” Carter said. “Are you implying that he did it?” Decker nearly kicked himself, realizing his error. “Mr. Golding, it was Mervin who was murdered. It’s Dee Baldwin who’s missing.” Carter stood up, full of venom. “Just what are you saying?” “I’m just telling you what we saw—” “You didn’t see anything!” Carter yelled. “Furthermore, I don’t care what the hell you saw, I’m telling you it’s impossible! I know Ernesto enough to know that what you’re saying is pure bullshit! Someone is trying to discredit my son and I want to know why!” More than discredit. Someone had murdered his son. Dad appeared more outraged by the inference of his son’s homo-

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sexuality than the actual murder. But that was only because the diversion was easier to digest. “Why would someone do such a thing!” Carter was still screaming. He shook a finger at Decker. “This is . . . this is . . .” And then he melted, sinking into a chair. He laid his head in his hands and wept openly. His wife watched with wet eyes, still shaking and still ashen. She observed him without comforting him. It was horrible to watch. Decker knew if he spoke, the man would stop crying. But that wasn’t to anyone’s advantage. He let him go for a few more moments, then said, “I don’t know what happened, sir. But I will find out what happened.” Carter looked up. “Why would . . . what do you think?” “I don’t know yet.” “You must have some ideas,” Jill whispered. “I’m sure I will have some ideas,” Decker said. “And when I do, you’ll be the first to know.” “When can we see him?” Jill’s voice was barely audible. “As soon as I hear it’s okay, I’ll come down and get you personally.” “We can’t see him now?” Carter asked. “I want to see him now! I demand it!” “Please, please, Mr. Golding.” Decker had his eyes closed, seeing the horror and knowing it was too much. “You must trust me with this one. I’ll tell you when it’s okay.” Silence. Then came the muted sobs and the handwringing. “How did . . .” Carter couldn’t say it. “He died instantly,” Decker said. “I’m positive he didn’t feel a thing.” “That’s not what I meant.” “But that’s what you want to know,” Decker said. “He didn’t suffer.” He paused. “I know you have another son, Karl. I’d like to talk to him as soon as you’ll allow it.” “Why?” Carter asked. “Because sometimes brothers confide in each other. I

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know this from personal experience. I have two sons who are very close to each other and protective of each other. I’m sometimes regarded as the common enemy. Or just too overprotective—” “Oh my God!” Jill blurted out. “Do you think that Karl’s in danger?” “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Decker answered. “I just want to find out what he knows about his brother.” “Our children are very open with us,” Carter said. “If you have something to ask, I demand that you ask it of me.” “Nothing specific to ask at the moment.” A lie. “Just walking down all avenues. Mr. Golding, do you have any information that might help me?” “No! Of course not! Why did you ask that?” “Please don’t take offense at anything I ask, sir. And I beg the same of you, Mrs. Golding. I am so sorry. The last thing I want to do is contribute to your pain.” Jill stared at him through deep pools of sorrow. “So you don’t know who did it?” “No,” Decker replied. “And Dee Baldwin is missing?” “Right now, we can’t locate her, that is correct.” Jill clasped her shaking hands. “So what do you think?” “I don’t know.” “Is Dee involved?” “I don’t know.” “And it was brutal?” Jill asked. “It was instantaneous,” Decker replied. Jill’s lower lip trembled. “He didn’t suffer?” “No.” “How do you know?” “I know. He didn’t suffer.” Jill started crying again. “I want to see my son,” she sobbed. “I need to see him!” “As soon as it’s okay, I’ll take you down personally—” “You already said that!” Carter snapped.

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“I know. I’m repeating myself.” “Can’t you speed things up?” Carter barked. “The case is my top priority,” Decker said. “I’m moving as fast as I can, because that’s what we both want. That’s why it’s so important for me to get information early on. I hate to belabor this, but when do you think I could meet with Karl?” Jill dried her eyes on a crumpled tissue. “What do you think Ernesto was hiding from us?” “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But kids hide things. Even kids who love their parents. And Ernesto loved you both very much—” Carter made a snorting sound. “Don’t patronize me—” “I’m not, sir. He told me that he loved and admired you both very much. Actually, he told me that the first time we talked alone . . . the day he con